“You see,” continued Corin, secretly immensely pleased with what he considered the success of his theorems, “you see it is absolutely and entirely impossible for us as individuals to take to heart, deeply to heart, each individual grief of each individual person in the world. Consider, man, if one did, every perusal of the daily papers would be fraught with soul-agonizings, with horrible heart-burnings. It would become a sheer wasting of the nervous tissues, an utter and entire uneconomic expenditure of the sympathies. Also,” concluded Corin, speaking now at top speed, “though you, in your isolated superiority of an orthodox religion, refuse to admit my theories, it is nevertheless a fact that all suffering is the outcome of justice, in a word, of karma, the inevitable demand for the payment of those debts which every individual has at one time or another voluntarily contracted.”
John grinned.
“I’ve heard that theory of yours before,” he remarked.
“Oh, I know your didymusical tendencies,” retorted Corin.
John laughed.
“I should have supposed,” quoth he, “that the shoe fitted another foot.”
But in his heart he was considering three points—three questions raised by a previous speech in the foregoing conversation. Firstly, was it a mere freak of fortune that had brought him to Malford? Secondly, would the curtain presently fall on the drama so far as he was concerned? Thirdly, had Father Maloney considered his palpable sympathy in the business an impertinence?
To firstly and secondly his heart cried an emphatic negative. Thirdly, after all, was a minor consideration; but, having in mind Father Maloney’s shrewd old eyes, John was disposed to answer that question likewise in the negative.
CHAPTER XI
IN AN OLD CHURCH
The next two days were dies non as far as John was concerned, since never a glimpse did he obtain of white-robed figure or attendant knights, despite sun-baked rambles along dusty roads, deep lanes, and over purple moorland.