The boy started. “Australia?” he repeated.
“Yes. I tried not to know of them for three or four years, so it happened I had no clew when I wanted it. For I wasn’t quite bad enough to be satisfied with the successful villainy. I had been brought up to be honorable, and I grew restive. Moreover”—he hesitated, and then his glance rested a moment on the thatch of fair hair and he went on—“moreover, I was unhappy to think that I had brought unhappiness to the woman—I loved. The woman whom I have loved—always. I wanted to make her life bright—I had shadowed it. That thought haunted me. After three or four years I made up my mind to find him and tell him and make amends. I had a great deal of money. I had no doubt I could find them. But I couldn’t. I moved heaven and earth, but I couldn’t.
“And success poured in. I was a proverb for luck. It was all empty to me—and so I handled it carelessly, and everything prospered—the world was my oyster. And there was no one to work for but myself, and I loathed myself; with every good gift I was wretched. Men kill themselves sometimes in such a mood—I was near that.”
The flowing voice was arrested. The bishop glanced up contemplatively and lifted the discarded pipe.
“You’re not going to stop, sir?” the boy ventured, dismayed. The magnetism which had held all audiences, always, did not fail with this audience of one. The flashing, humorous smile answered.
“I’ve not tired you yet? I was thinking if I could make you understand what happened. It was an event, yet it’s hard to make it show as a fact. Probably you haven’t yet had the experience which could explain what I mean. So you must take my word for it that there is an experience which comes to many people and which throws a new light.” He stopped as if choosing his words. “We stumble along with our eyes bound tight with the world, the flesh, and the devil. We see under a bit, but it’s blind work, and one gets knocked and banged. Then some one comes along and lifts the bandage, or a man may push it up himself when things hurt—the event is objective or subjective. Anyhow, suddenly one sees the road and the light that shines down it. It makes the difference.”
The boy nodded. “I’m not very old,” he said, hesitating. “But I’ve gone through a bit and I believe I understand.”
“Good!” the bishop threw at him. Then: “It’s queer,” he mused, “that we don’t keep clear vision when we’ve got it. It’s so much easier. But most of us don’t. We mostly pull the same old wool back over our eyes and begin bumping about again. A few don’t—they’re the saints. They live on earth, and after, in the kingdom of heaven. Mighty few—but—I think—some.” The bishop’s eyes were as if they took in things not present. “Most of us fall back; and that’s what sin is—to walk in darkness deliberately. However—this is a shame—I’m preaching at you, and taking advantage.” His smile flashed. “But that illumination of sight which can’t be described any more than you can describe love or hunger happened to me. I went to church—I didn’t do that often—and I heard a sermon. The message arrived down that much-travelled road. A man preached, and his key unlocked my door—and I came out. It was an old idea which released me, but I found it new. It was the idea that the best thing to do with a life is to give it away. When I left church that day I’d decided to do things. I went into the ministry and went West into logging-camps. Doing that, remorse lost its sting. I wasn’t allowed to right the wrong I’d done, but it seemed coming close if I righted other wrongs.”
The eyes of the old churchman had travelled away beyond the burnished young head, beyond the sunny hedges, into years gone by. He was reviewing his work and it interested him; mostly he did not remember the present or the listener as he talked, as the blaze of his spirit lighted up the old battle-field.
“The men I lived with were rough as beasts, but I really liked them, and so they let me help them. They didn’t know that they were helping me. I told them the truth and at first they were going to shoot me.” The bishop laughed. “Oh, yes, several times. But they got into the habit of letting me live and letting me talk, and by degrees I showed them things which staggered them. Many of them had never seen decency, and the minute they looked at it they liked it. People do—there are few bad people. Mostly ignorant.”