“I think it is best,” he said, “not to think too much about it. From what experience I have had, I have come to the humiliating conclusion that men have very little to do with the formation of their own lives. A ship-captain may sit down and mark his course across the chart with the greatest accuracy, the most profound knowledge of wind and current, and the keenest foresight; but that will have very little effect upon the actual voyage.”
“But,” argued the priest in a low voice, “is it not better to have an end in view—to have a certain aim, and a method, more or less formed, of attaining it?”
“Most men have that,” answered Christian, “but do not know that they have it!”
“You have?”
Christian smoked meditatively. A month ago he would have said “Yes” without a moment's hesitation.
“And you know it, I think,” added the priest slowly. He was perfectly innocent of any desire to extract details of his companion's life from unwilling lips, and Christian knew it. He was convinced that, whatever part René Drucquer had attempted to play in the past, he was sincere at that moment, and he divined that the young Jesuit was weakly giving way to a sudden desire to speak to some fellow-being of his own life—to lay aside the strict reserve demanded by the tenets of the Society to which he was irrevocably bound. In his superficial way, Christian Vellacott had studied men as well as letters, and he was not ignorant of the influence exercised over the human mind by such trifling circumstances as moonshine upon placid water, distant music, the solemn hush of eventide, or the subtle odour of a beloved flower. If René Drucquer was on the point of committing a great mistake, he at least would not urge him on towards it, so he smoked in silence, looking practical and unsympathetic.
The priest laughed a little short, deprecating laugh, in which there was no shadow of mirth.
“I have not,” he said, rubbing his slim hands together, palm to palm, slowly, “and—I know it.”
“It will come,” suggested the Englishman, after a pause.
The priest shook his head with a little smile, which was infinitely sadder than tears. His cold silence was worse than an outburst of grief; it was like the keen frost that comes before snow, harder to bear than the snow itself. Presently he moved slightly towards his companion so that their arms were touching, and in his soft modulated voice, trained to conceal emotion, he told his story.