"Yes, I remember," I said; "but please do not trouble about that now. You have your own sorrow to think of."
"I am ashamed," he went on. "I, a clergyman, set apart to give help, comfort, to those who might come to me, and yet when you asked me one of the greatest of all questions, I had no answer to give. I was dumb."
I waited in silence. I longed to know what was in the man's mind, but I felt it would be sacrilege to ask him questions then. I could see that he had been passing through deep waters, that the billows had gone over his head. He was no longer the ecclesiastic, no longer the man he had believed himself, set apart simply because a bishop's hands had been laid upon his head. He had seen beneath the mere conventions of his faith, he had got to the heart of things, or, at least, he had tried to get there.
"I am ashamed," he went on, "that I had no answer to give you. Even yet I have none to give. I am still in the dark, and yet—yet...."
He seemed like a man who saw something from afar, one who was stretching out lame hands of faith.
"I understand as I never understood before," he went on. "Do you remember that story of David standing by the gates of Jerusalem, waiting for news of his son, and who, when the news came, cried out, 'Oh, Absalom, my son, my son, would God that I had died for thee, oh, Absalom, my son!' I understand that now. I think I understand something more; I am not certain yet, but I feel as though—as though...."
And again there was a far-away look in his eyes. He rose and held out his hand.
"You will wonder why I came," he said. "I do too, except that I could not help coming. Do you remember what our Lord said about blind leaders of the blind? No, I am not blind, but I am like the man who was cured of his blindness by our Lord, who said he saw men as trees walking. It is a strange story, isn't it? But oh, man, what fools we are! What blind fools! And how God Almighty opens our eyes and shows us our foolishness!"
I longed to be able to utter some words of comfort, but I was in the dark myself. I had been asking questions ever since I came to Cornwall, but had received no answer. I would have given anything at that time to have been able to say something which would have been balm to the father's bleeding heart. But I could not. I could only tell him how sorry I was, and that seemed such a little thing.
That same afternoon, the weather being fine, I found my way into St. Issey. I had practically forgotten Father Abraham's warning, and longing to see human faces, and to get away from the questions which haunted me, I turned towards the village. I had, by this time, learnt to know a great many of the people. I was no longer simply the stranger who had a few months before come to live in Father Abraham's hut. I had now been living in the neighborhood for several months, and was regarded by many of the people as a friend. I had also got into the habit of dropping into the cottages and talking with the simple folk. I had barely entered the village when I saw a woman standing by her cottage door.