At this the Bishop raised his head with an air of imperious authority.
"I cannot permit!—-" he said, in unsteady accents—"You have no right to speak to me in such a tone—it is not your place—-"
Then, suddenly, his voice broke, and throwing himself into his chair, he dropped his head forward on the desk and covered it with his hands in an attitude of the utmost abandonment and dejection. The moisture rose to Walden's eyes,—he knew the great tragedy of his friend's life—all comprised in one brief, romantic episode of the adoring love, and sudden loss of a beautiful woman drowned by accident in her own pleasure-boat on the very eve of her marriage with him,—and be knew that just as deep and ardent as the man's passion had been, so deep and ardent was his sorrow—a sorrow that could never be consoled. And John sat silent, deeply moved in himself, and ever and anon glancing upwards at the exquisite face of the painted Virgin above him,—the face of the dead girl whom her lover had thus sanctified. Presently Brent raised his head,—his face was white and worn—his eyes were wet.
"Forgive me, John!" he said—"I have been working hard of late, and my nerves are unstrung. And—I cannot, I cannot forget her! And what is more awful and terrible to me than anything is that I cannot forgive God!" He uttered these words in an awed whisper. "I cannot! I bear the Almighty a grudge for wrenching her life away from mine! Of what use was it to be so cruel? Of what purpose to kill one so young? If God is omnipotent, God could have saved her. But He let her die! I tell you, Walden, that ever since I have been Bishop of this diocese, I have tried to relieve sorrow and pain whenever I have met with it—I have striven to do my duty, hoping against hope that perhaps God would teach me—would explain the why and wherefore of so much needless agony to His creatures—and that by discovering reasons for the afflictions of others, I should learn to become reconciled to my own. But no!—nothing has been made clear! I have seen innocent women die in the tortures of the damned—while their drunken husbands have lived to carouse over their coffins. Children,—mere babes—are afflicted with diseases for which often no cause can be assigned and no cure discovered—while over the whole sweltering mass of human helplessness and ignorance, Death stalks triumphant,—and God, though called upon for rescue with prayers and tears, withdraws Himself in clouds of impenetrable silence. It is all hopeless, useless, irremediable! That is why my thoughts turn to Rome—I say, let me believe in SOMETHING, if it be only a fairy tale! Let me hear grand music mounting to heaven, even if human words cannot reach so high!—let me think that guardian angels exist, even if there is nothing in space save a blind Chance spawning life particles uselessly,—let my soul and senses feel the touch of something higher, vaster, purer and better than what the Church of England calls Christianity at this present day!"
"And that 'something higher, vaster, purer and better'—would you call it the Church of Rome?" asked Walden. "In suggestion,—in emotion and poetic inspiration, yes!"—said Brent—"In theory and in practice, no!"
There was a pause. Walden sat for a few moments absorbed in anxious thought. Then he looked up with a cheerful air.
"Harry," he said—"Will you do me a favour? Promise that you will postpone the idea of seceding, or as you put it, 'returning' to Rome, for six months. Will you? At the end of that time we'll discuss it again."
The Bishop looked uneasy.
"I would rather do what has to be done at once,"—he said.
"Then I must talk to you straightly,"—continued John, bracing himself up, and squaring his shoulders resolutely—"I must forget that you are my Bishop, and speak just as man to man. All the facts of the case can be summed up in one word—Selfishness! Pure Selfishness, Harry!—and I never thought I should have had to convict you of it!"