"From Brent,"—he said, half aloud—"Dear old fellow! I have not heard from him since New Year."
He opened the letter, and began to read. The interested look in his eyes deepened,—and he moved nearer to the open window to avail himself as much as possible of the swiftly decreasing light.
"DEAR WALDEN,"—it ran—"The spirit moves me to write to you, not only because it occurs to me that I have failed to do so for a long time, but also because I feel a certain necessity for thought- expansion to someone, who, like yourself, is accustomed to the habit of thinking. The tendency of the majority nowadays is,—or so it appears to me,—to forget the purpose for which the brain was designed, or rather to use it for no higher object than that for which it is employed by the brute creation, namely to consider the ways and means of securing food, and then to ruminate on the self- gratification which follows the lusts of appetite. In fact, 'to rot and rot,—and thereby hangs a tale!' But before I enter into any particulars of my own special phase or mood, let me ask how it fares with you in your small and secluded parish? All must be well, I imagine, otherwise doubtless I should have heard. It seems only the other day that I came, at your request, to consecrate your beautiful little church of 'The Saint's Rest,'—yet seven years have rolled away since then, leaving indelible tracks of age on me, as probably on you also, my dear fellow!—though you have always carried old Time on your back more lightly and easily than I. To me he has ever been the Arabian Nights' inexorable 'Old Man of the Sea,' whose habit is to kill unless killed. At fifty-one I feel myself either 'rusting' or mellowing; I wonder which you will judge the most fitting appellation for me when we next meet? Mind and memory play me strange tricks in my brief moments of solitude, and whenever I think of you, I imagine it can only be yesterday that we two college lads walked and talked together in the drowsy old streets of Oxford and made our various plans for our future lives with all the superb dominance and assertiveness of youth, which is so delightful while it lasts, despite the miserable deceptions it practises upon us. One thing, however, which I gained in the past time, and which has never deceived me, is your friendship,—and how much I owe to you no one but myself can ever tell. Good God!—how superior you always were, and are, to me! Why did you efface yourself so completely for my sake? I often ask this question, and except for the fact that it would be impossible to you to even make an attempt to override, for mere ambition, anyone for whom you had a deep affection, I cannot imagine any answer. But as matters have turned out with me I think it might have been better after all, had you been in my place and I in yours! A small 'cure of souls' would have put my mental fibre to less torture, than the crowding cares of my diocese, which depress me more and more as they increase. Many things seem to me hopeless,- -utterly irremediable! The shadow of a pre-ponderating, defiant, all-triumphant Evil stalks abroad everywhere—and the clergy are as much affected by it as the laymen. I feel that the world is far more Christ-less to-day after two thousand years of preaching and teaching, than it was in the time of Nero. How has this happened? Whose the fault? Walden, there is only one reply—it is the Church itself that has failed! The message of salvation,—the gospel of love,—these are as God-born and true as ever they were,—but the preachers and teachers of the Divine Creed are to blame,—the men who quarrel among themselves over forms and ceremonies instead of concentrating their energies on ministering to others,—and I confess I find myself often at a loss to dispose Church affairs in such wise as to secure at one and the same time, peace and satisfaction amongst the clergy under me, with proper devotion to the mental and physical needs of the thousands who have a right, yes a right to expect spiritual comfort and material succour from those who profess, by their vows of ordination, to be faithful and disinterested servants of Christ.
"I daresay you remember how we used to talk religious matters over when we were young and enthusiastic men, studying for the Church. You will easily recall the indignation and fervour with which we repudiated all heresies new and old, and turned our backs with mingled pity and scorn on every writer of agnostic theories, estimating such heterodox influences as weighing but lightly in the balance of belief, and making little or no effect on the minds of the majority. We did not then grasp in its full measure the meaning of what is to-day called the 'rush' of life. That blind, brutal stampede of humanity over every corner and quarter of the earth,—a stampede which it is impossible to check or to divert, and which arises out of a nameless sense of panic, and foreboding of disaster! Like hordes of wild cattle on the prairies, who scent invisible fire, and begin to gallop furiously headlong anywhere and everywhere, before the first red gleam of the devouring element breaks from the undergrowth of dry grass and stubble,—so do the nations and peoples appear to me to-day. Reckless, maddened, fear- stricken and reasonless, they rush hither and thither in search of refuge from themselves and from each other, yet are all the while driven along unconsciously in heterogeneous masses, as though swept by the resistless breath of some mysterious whirlwind, impelling them on to their own disaster. I feel the end approaching, Walden!— sometimes I almost see it! And with the near touch of a shuddering future catastrophe on me, I am often disposed to agree with sad King Solomon that after all 'there is nothing better for a man than that he should eat, drink and be merry all the days of his life.' For I grow tired of my own puny efforts to lift the burden of human sorrow which is laid upon me, aloft on the fainting wings of prayer, to a God who seems wholly irresponsive,—mind, Walden, I say seems—so do not start away from my words and judge me as beginning to weaken in the faith that formerly inspired me. I confess to an intense fatigue and hopelessness,—the constant unrelieved consciousness of human wretchedness weighs me down to the dust of spiritual abasement, for I can but think that if God were indeed merciful and full of loving- kindness, He would not, He could not endure the constant spectacle of man's devilish injustice to his brother man! I have no right to permit myself to indulge in such reflections as these, I know,—yet they have gained such hold on me that I have latterly had serious thoughts of resigning my bishopric. But this is a matter involving other changes in my life, on which I should like to have some long friendly talks with you, before taking any decisive step. Your own attitude of mind towards the 'calling and election' you have chosen has always seemed to me so pre-eminently pure and lofty, that I should condemn ray own feelings even more than I do, were I to allow the twin forces of pessimism and despair to possess me utterly without an attempt to bring them under your sane and healthful exorcism, the more so, as you know all my personal history and life- long sorrow. And this brings me to the main point of my letter which is, that I should much like to see you, if you can spare me two or three days of your company any time before the end of August. Try to arrange an early visit, though I know how ill your parishioners can spare you, and how more than likely they are to grumble at your absence. You are to be envied in having secured so much affection and confidence in the parish you control, and every day I feel more and more how wisely you have chosen your lot in that comparative obscurity, which, at one time, seemed to those who know your brilliant gifts, a waste of life and opportunity. Of course you are not without jealous enemies,—no true soul ever is. Sir Morton Pippitt still occasionally sends me a spluttering note of information as to something you have, or have not done, to the church on which you have spent the greater part of your personal fortune; and Leveson, the minister at Badsworth, appears to think that I should assist him by heading a subscription list to obtain funds for the purpose of making his church as perfect a gem of architecture as yours. Due enquiries have been made as to the nature and needs of his parishioners, and it appears that only twenty—five adult persons on an average ever attend his ministrations, and that the building for which he pleads is a brick edifice built in 1870 and deliberately allowed to decay by disuse and neglect. However, Sir Morton Pippitt is taking some interest in it, so I am given to understand,—and perhaps in 'restoring' a modern chapel, he will be able to console himself for the ruthless manner in which you stripped off his 'galvanised tin' roof from your old Norman church walls!
"I am sorry to hear that the historic house of Abbot's Manor is again inhabited, and by one who is likely to be a most undesirable neighbour to you."
Here Walden, unable to read very quickly at the window, stepped out on the lawn, still holding the letter close to his eyes. "A most undesirable neighbour"—he-murmured-"Yes—now let me see!—where is that phrase?—Oh, here it is,—'a most undesirable neighbour.'" And he read on:-"I allude to Miss Vancourt, the only child of the late Robert Vancourt who was killed some years ago in the hunting field. The girl was taken away at her father's death by her uncle Frederick, who, having sown an unusual crop of wild oats, had married one of those inordinately wealthy American women to whom the sun itself appears little more than a magnified gold-piece—and of course between the two she has had a very bad training. Frederick Vancourt was the worst and weakest of the family, and his wife has been known for years as a particularly hardened member of the 'smart' set. Under their tutelage Miss Vancourt, or 'Maryllia Van,' as she appears to be familiarly known and called in society, has attained a rather unenviable notoriety; and when I heard the other day that she had left her aunt's house in a fit of ungovernable temper, and had gone to her own old house to live, I thought at once of you with a pang of pity. For, if I remember rightly, you have a great opinion of the Manor as an unspoilt relic of Tudor times, and have always been rather glad that it was left to itself without any modern improvement or innovation. I can imagine nothing worse to your mind than the presence of a 'smart' lady in the unsophisticated village of St. Rest! However, you may take heart of grace, as it is not likely she will stay there long. Rumour asserts that she is shortly to be married to Lord Roxmouth,—he who will be Duke of Ormistoune and owner of that splendid but half-ruined pile, Roxmouth Castle. She has, it appears, kept this poor gentleman dancing attendance on her for a sufficient time to make evident to the world her desire to secure his title, and her present sudden capricious retirement into country life is understood to be a mere RUSE to draw him more swiftly on to his matrimonial doom. No doubt he has an eye on Mrs. Fred Vancourt's millions, which her niece would inherit in the event of her marrying a future English duke,—still, from what I gather, he would deserve some compensation for risking his life's happiness with such a very doubtful partner. But I daresay I am retailing information with which you are no doubt already quite familiar, and in all probability 'Maryllia Van' is not likely to cross your path at any time, as among her other reported characteristics is that of a cheap scorn for religion,—a scorn which sits so unbecomingly on our modern women, and forbodes so much disaster in the future, they being the mothers of the coming race. I expect the only circumstance likely to trouble your calm and pleasant routine of life and labour is, that the present occupation of Abbot's Manor may have stopped some of your romantic rambles in the beautiful woods surrounding it! May never any greater care disturb you, my dear fellow!—for even that is one, which, as I have pointed out to you, will be of brief duration. Let me know when you think you will be able to come and spend a couple of days here,—and I will clear my work ahead in order to leave the time free for an entire unburdening of my soul to you, as in the days of our youth, so long ago.—Sincerely and affectionately yours, H.A. BRENT."
Slowly, and with methodical nicety, Walden folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. With a kind of dazed air he looked about him, vaguely surprised that the evening seemed to have fallen so soon. Streaks of the sunset still glowed redly here and there in the sky, but the dense purple of the night had widened steadily over the spaces of the air, and just above the highest bough of the apple- tree on the lawn, the planet Venus twinkled bravely in all its silver panoply of pride as the Evening Star. Low and sweet on the fragrant silence came the dulcet piping of a nightingale, and the soft swishing sound of the river flowing among the rushes, and pushing against the pebbly shore. A sudden smarting sense of pain stung Walden's eyes,—pressing them with one hand he found it wet,— with tears? No, no!—not with tears,—merely with the moisture of strain and fatigue,—his sight was not so good as it used to be;—of course he was getting old,—and Bishop Brent's small caligraphy had been difficult to decipher by the half-light. All at once something burning and passionate stirred in him,—a wave of chivalrous indignation that poured itself swiftly through every channel of his clean and honest blood, and he involuntarily clenched his hand.
"What liars there are in the world!" he said aloud and fiercely—
"What liars!"
Venus, peeping at him over the apple-boughs, gave out a diamond-like sparkle as though she were no greater thing than a loving eye,—the unseen nightingale, tuning its voice to richer certainties, broke into a fuller, deeper warble,—more stars flew, like shining fire- flies, into space, and on the lowest line of the western horizon a white cloud fringed with silver, floated slowly, the noiseless herald of the coming moon. But Walden saw nothing of the mystically beautiful transfiguration of the evening into night. His thoughts were elsewhere.
"And yet"—he mused sorrowfully—"How do I know? How can I tell? The clear childlike eyes may be trained to deceive,—the smile of the sweet, all too sweet mouth, may be insincere—the pretty, impulsive confiding manner may be a mere trick—-and—-after all—-what is it to me? I demand of myself plainly and fairly—what is it to me?"