Brent drew himself slowly up in his chair.
"Selfishness!" he echoed, dreamily—"I can take anything from you,
John!—I did at college,—but—selfishness—-"
"Selfishness!" repeated John, firmly—"You have had to suffer a grief—a great grief,—and because it was so sudden, so tragic and overwhelming, you draw a mourning veil of your own across the very face of God! You try to rule your diocese by the measure of your own rod of affliction. And, finding that nothing is clear to you, because of your own obstructive spirit, you would set up a fresh barrier between yourself and Eternal Wisdom, by deserting your post here, and separating yourself from all the world save the shadow of the woman you yourself loved! Harry, my dear old friend, unless I had heard this from your own lips, I should never have believed it of you!"
Brent sat heavily in his chair, sunk in a brooding melancholy.
"'The heart knoweth its own bitterness!'"—he murmured wearily— "Your reproaches are just,—I know I deserve them, but they do not rouse me. They do not stir one pulse in my soul! What have I learned of Eternal Wisdom?—what have I seen? Nothing but cruelty upon cruelty dealt out, not to the wicked, but to the innocent! And because I protest against this, you call my spirit an obstructive one—well!—it may be so! But, Walden, you have never loved!—you have never felt all your life rush like a river to the sea of passion!—not low, debasing passion, but passion born of vitality, ardour, truth, hope, sympathy!—such emotion as most surely palpitates through the whole body of the natural creation, else there would be naught created. God Himself—if there be a God—must be conscious of Love! Do we not say: 'God IS Love'?—and this too while we suffer beneath His heavy chastisements which are truely more like Hate! I repeat, Walden, you have never loved,—till now perhaps—and even now you are scarcely conscious of the hidden strength of your own feelings. But suppose—just for the sake of argument—suppose this 'little girl' as you call her, Maryllia Vancourt, were to die suddenly, would you not, as you express it, 'draw a mourning veil of your own across the face of God'?"
Walden started as though suddenly wounded. If Maryllia were to die!' He shuddered as the mere thought passed across his brain. 'If Maryllia were to die!' Why then—then the world would be a blank— there would be no more sunshine!—no roses!—no songs of birds!— nothing of fairness or pleasure left in life—not for him, whatever there might be for others. Was it possible that her existence meant so much to him? Yes, it meant so much!—it had come to mean so much! He felt his old friend's melancholy eyes upon him, and looking up met their searching scrutiny with a serious and open frankness.
"Honestly, I think I should die myself, or lose my senses!"—he said—"And honestly, I hardly realised this,—which is just as much selfishness on my part as any of which I hastily accused you,—till you put it to me. I will not profess to have a stoicism beyond mortal limits, Harry, nor should I expect such from you. But I WILL say, that despite our human weakness, we must have courage!—we are not men without it. And whether faith stands fast or falters, whether God seems far off or very near, we must face and fight our destiny—not run away from it! You want to run away,"—and he smiled gravely—"or rather, just in the present mood of yours you think of doing so—but I believe it is only a mood—and that you will not, after putting your hand to the plough, turn back because of the aridness or ungratefulness of the soil,—that would not be like you. If one must needs perish, it is better to perish at one's post of duty than desert over to the enemy."
"I am not sure that Rome is an enemy;"—said the Bishop, musingly.
To this Walden gave no reply, and the conversation fell into other channels. But, during the whole time of his visit, John was forced to realise, with much acute surprise and distress, that constant brooding on grief,—and excessive spiritual emotion of an exalted and sensuous kind, with much perplexed pondering on human evils for which there seemed no remedy, had produced a painful impression of life's despair and futility on Brent's mind,—an impression which it would be difficult to eradicate, and which would only be softened and possibly diminished by tenderly dealing with it as though it were an illness, and gradually bringing about restoration and recovery through the gentlest means. Though sometimes it was to be feared that all persuasion would be useless, and that the scandalous spectacle of an English Bishop seceding to the Church of Rome would be exhibited with an almost theatrical effect in his friend's case. For the ornate ritual which the Bishop maintained in his Cathedral services was almost worthy of a Mass at St. Peter's. The old, simple chaste English style of 'Morning Prayer' was exchanged for 'Matins,'—choristers perpetually chanted and sang,—crosses were carried to and fro,—banners waved—processions were held—and the 'Via Crucis' was performed by a select number of the clergy and congregation every Friday.
"I never have this sort of thing in my church,"—said Walden, bluntly, on one occasion—"My parishioners would not understand it."