"Do you believe what people say?" interrupted Walden, suddenly,—"Is it not true that when a woman is pretty, intelligent, clean-souled and pure-minded, and as unlike the rest of 'society' women as she can well be, she is slandered for having the very virtues her rivals do not possess?"
"Quite true!"—said Brent—"and quite common. It is always the old story—'Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.' Do not imagine for a moment, John, that I am going to run the risk of losing your friendship by repeating anything that may have been said against the reputation or the character of Miss Vancourt. I have always prayed that no woman might ever come between us,"—and here a faint tinge of colour warmed the pallor of his face—"And, so far, I fancy the prayer has been granted. And I do not think that this—this—shall we call it glamour, John?—this glamour, of the imagination and the senses, will overcome you in any detrimental way. I cannot picture you as the victim of a 'society' siren!"
John smiled. A vision rose up before his eyes of a little figure in sparkling white draperies—a figure that bent appealingly towards him, while a soft childlike voice said—'I'm sorry! Will you forgive me?' The tender lines round his mouth deepened and softened at the mental picture.
"She is not a society siren,"—he said, gently—"Poor little soul!
She is a mere woman, needing what woman best thrives upon—love!"
"Well, she has been loved and sought in marriage for at least three years by Lord Roxmouth,"—said the Bishop.
"Has SHE been loved and sought, or her aunt's millions?" queried Walden—"That is the point at issue. But my dear Brent, do not let us waste time in talking over this little folly of mine—for I grant you it is folly. I'm not sorry you have found it out, for in any case I had meant to make a clean breast of it before we parted,"—he hesitated—then looked up frankly—"I would rather you spoke no more of it, Harry! I've made my confession. I admit I nearly struck Leveson for slandering an innocent and defenseless woman,—and I believe you'll forgive me for that. Next, I own that though I am getting into the sere and yellow leaf, I am still conscious of a heart,—and that I feel a regretful yearning at times for the joys I have missed out of my life—and you'll forgive me for that too,—I know you will! For the rest, draw a curtain over this little weakness of mine, will you? I don't want to speak of it—I want to fight it and conquer it."
The Bishop stretched out a hand and caught Walden's in a close grasp.
"Right!"—he said—"Do that, and you will do well! It is all a question of fighting and conquering, or—being conquered. But YOU will never give in, John! You are not the man to yield to the wiles of the devil. For there IS a devil!—I am sure of it!" And his dark eyes flashed with a sudden wild light. "A cozening, crafty, lurking devil, that sets temptation before us in such varied and pleasing forms that it is difficult—sometimes impossible—to tell which is right and which is wrong! Walden, we must escape from this devil—we must escape!"
He sprang up with an impulsive quickness which startled Walden, and began to pace up and down the room again.
"A mocking devil,"—he said—"a lying devil!—whispering from morning till evening, and from evening till morning, doubts of God! Doubts whether He, the Creator of worlds, really exists,-doubts as to whether He, or It, is not some huge blind, deaf Force, grinding its way on through limitless and eternal Production and Reproduction to one end,—Annihilation! Walden, you must now hear MY confession! These doubts are driving me mad! I cannot bear the thought of the whirl of countless universes, immeasurable solar systems, crammed with tortured life for which there seems to be no hope, no care, no rescue, no future! I am unable to preach or to FEEL comfort for the human race! The very tragedy of the Cross only brings me to one result—that Truth is always crucified. The world prefers Falsehood. So much so indeed that the Christian religion itself is little more than a super-structure of lies raised above the sepulchre of a murdered Truth. I told you in my letter I had serious thoughts of resigning my bishopric. So I have. My spirit turns to Rome!"