The Duchess de la Santoisie moved uneasily,—there was a vibration in Alwyn's voice that went to her very heart. Strange thoughts swept cloud-like across her mind,—again she saw in fancy a little fair, dead child that she had loved,—her only one, on whom she had spent all the tenderness of which her nature was capable. It had died at the prettiest age of children,—the age of lisping speech and softly tottering feet, when a journey from the protecting background of a wall to outstretched maternal arms seems fraught with dire peril to the tiny adventurer, and is only undertaken with the help of much coaxing, sweet laughter, and still sweeter kisses. She remembered how, in spite of her "free" opinions, she had found it impossible not to teach her little one a prayer;—and a sudden mist of tears blurred her sight, as she recollected the child's last words,—words uttered plaintively in the death grasp of a cruel fever, "Suffer me.. to come to Thee!"—A quick sigh escaped her lips,—the diamonds on her breast heaved restlessly,—lifting her eyes, grown soft with gentle memory, she encountered those of Alwyn, and again she asked herself, could he read her thoughts? His steadfast gaze seemed to encompass her, and absorb in a grave, compassionate earnestness the entire comprehension of her life. Her husband's polite, mellifluous accents roused her from this half-reverie.
"I confess I am surprised, Mr. Alwyn,"—he was saying—"that you, a man of such genius and ability, should be still in the leading strings of the Church!"
"There is NO Church"—returned Alwyn quietly,—"The world is waiting for one! The Alpha Beta of Christianity has been learned and recited more or less badly by the children of men for nearly two thousand years,—the actual grammar and meaning of the whole Language has yet to be deciphered. There have been, and are, what are CALLED Churches,—one especially, which, if it would bravely discard mere vulgar superstition, and accept, absorb, and use the discoveries of Science instead, might, and possibly WILL, blossom into the true, universal, and pure Christian Fabric. Meanwhile, in the shaking to and fro of things,—the troublous sifting of the wheat from the chaff,—we must be content to follow by the Way of the Cross as best we can. Christianity has fallen into disrepute, probably because of the Self-Renunciation it demands,—for, in this age, the primal object of each individual is manifestly to serve Self only. It is a wrong road,—a side-lane that leads nowhere,—and we shall inevitably have to turn back upon it and recover the right path—if not now, why then hereafter!"
His voice had a tremor of pain within it;—he was thinking of the millions of men and women who were voluntarily wandering astray into a darkness they did not dream of,—and his heart, the great, true heart of the Poet, became filled with an indescribable passion of yearning.
"No wonder," he mused—"no wonder that Christ came hither for the sake of Love! To rescue, to redeem, to save, to bless! … O Divine sympathy for sorrow! If I—a man—can feel such aching pity for the woes of others, how vast, how limitless, how tender, must be the pity of God!"
And his eyes softened,—he almost forgot his surroundings. He was entirely unaware of the various deep and wistful emotions he had wakened in the hearts of his hearers. There was a great attractiveness in him that he was not conscious of,—and while all present certainly felt that he, though among them, was not of them, they were at the same time curiously moved by an impression that notwithstanding his being, as it were, set apart from their ways of existence, his sympathetic influence surrounded them as resistlessly as a pure atmosphere in which they drew long refreshing breaths of healthier life.
"I should like,"—suddenly said a bearded individual who was seated half-way down the table, and who had listened attentively to everything—"I should like to tell you a few things about Esoteric Buddhism!—I am sure it is a faith that would suit you admirably!"
Alwyn smiled, courteously enough. "I shall be happy to hear your views on the subject, sir," he answered gently—"But I must tell you that before I left England for the East, I had studied that theory, together with many others that were offered as substitutes for Christianity, and I found it totally inadequate to meet the highest demands of the spiritual intelligence. I may also add, that I have read carefully all the principal works against Religion,—from the treatises of the earliest skeptics down to Voltaire and others of our own day. Moreover, I had, not so very long ago, rejected the Christian Faith; that I now accept and adhere to it, is not the result of my merit or attainment,—but simply the outcome of an undeserved blessing and singularly happy fortune."
"Pardon me, Mr. Alwyn"—said Madame de la Santoisie with a sweet smile—"By all the laws of nature I must contradict you there! Your fame and fortune must needs be the reward of merit,—since true happiness never comes to the undeserving."
Alwyn made no reply,—inasmuch as to repudiate the idea of personal merit too warmly is, as such matters are judged nowadays, suggestive of more conceit than modesty. He skilfully changed the conversation, and it glided off by degrees into various other channels,—music, art, science, and the political situation of the hour. The men and women assembled, as though stimulated and inspired by some new interest, now strove to appear at their very best—and the friction of intellect with intellect resulted in more or less brilliancy of talk, which, for once, was totally free from the flippant and mocking spirit which usually pervaded the Santoisie social circle. On all the subjects that came up for discussion Alwyn proved himself thoroughly at home—and M. le Duc, sitting in a silence that was most unwonted with him, became filled with amazement to think that this man, so full of fine qualities and intellectual abilities, should be actually a CHRISTIAN!—The thing was quite incongruous, or seemed so to the ironical wit of the born and bred Parisian,—he tried to consider it absurd,—even laughable,—but his efforts merely resulted in a sense of uneasy personal shame. This poet was, at any rate, a MAN,—he might have posed for a Coriolanus or Marc Antony;—and there was something supreme about him that could not be SNEERED DOWN.