"I am sorry!"—he murmured—"John, my dear old fellow, I am very sorry—-"
"Why should you be sorry?" broke out Walden, impetuously, "There is nothing to be sorry for, except that I am a fool! But I knew THAT long ago, even if you did not!"—and he forced a smile—"Don't be sorry for me, Brent!—I'm not in the least sorry for myself. Indeed, if I tell you the whole truth, I believe I rather like my own folly. It does nobody any harm! And after all it is not absolutely a world's wonder that a decaying tree should, even in its decaying process, be aware of the touch of spring. It should not make the tree unhappy!"
The Bishop raised his eyes. They were full of a deep melancholy.
"We are not trees—we are men!" he said—"And as men, God has made us all aware of the love of woman,—the irresistible passion that at one time or another makes havoc or glory of our lives! It is the direst temptation on earth. Worst of all and bitterest it is when love comes too late,—too late, John!—I say in your case, it comes too late!"
John sighed and smiled.
"Love—if it has come to me at all—is never too late,"—he said with quiet patience,—"My dear Brent, don't you understand? This little girl—this child—for she is nothing more than that to a man of my years—has slipped into my life by chance, as it were, like a stray sunbeam—no more! I feel her brightness—her warmth—her vitality—and my soul is conscious of an animation and gladness whenever she is near, of which she is the sole cause. But that is all. Her pretty ways—her utter loneliness,—are the facts of her existence which touch me to pity, and I would see her cared for and protected,—but I know myself to be too old and too unworthy to so care for and protect her. I want her to be happy, but I am fully conscious that I can never make her so. Would you call this kind of chill sentiment 'love'?"
Brent regarded him steadfastly.
"Yes, John! I think I should!—yes, I certainly should call 'this chill sentiment' love! And tell me—have you never got out of your depth in the water of this 'chill sentiment,' or found yourself battling for dear life against an outbreak of volcanic fire?"
Walden was silent.
"I never thought,"—continued the Bishop, rather sorrowfully,—"when I wrote to you about the return of Robert Vancourt's daughter to her childhood's home, that she would in any serious way interfere with the peace of your life, John! I told you just what I had heard—no more. I have never seen the girl. I only know what people say of her. And that is not altogether pleasing."