“I won’t go so far as that,” said Herrick. “I do not like Huish. And yet ... he has his merits too.”
“And, in short, take them for all in all, as good a ship’s company as one would ask?” said Attwater.
“O yes,” said Herrick, “quite.”
“So then we approach the other point of why you despise yourself?” said Attwater.
“Do we not all despise ourselves?” cried Herrick. “Do not you?”
“Oh, I say I do. But do I?” said Attwater. “One thing I know at least: I never gave a cry like yours. Hay! it came from a bad conscience! Ah, man, that poor diving-dress of self-conceit is sadly tattered! To-day, if ye will hear my voice. To-day, now, while the sun sets, and here in this burying-place of brown innocents, fall on your knees and cast your sins and sorrows on the Redeemer. Hay——”
“Not Hay!” interrupted the other, strangling. “Don’t call me that! I mean.... For God’s sake, can’t you see I’m on the rack?”
“I see it, I know it, I put and keep you there; my fingers are on the screws!” said Attwater. “Please God, I will bring a penitent this night before His throne. Come, come to the mercy-seat! He waits to be gracious, man—waits to be gracious!”
He spread out his arms like a crucifix; his face shone with the brightness of a seraph’s; in his voice, as it rose to the last word, the tears seemed ready.
Herrick made a vigorous call upon himself. “Attwater,” he said, “you push me beyond bearing. What am I to do? I do not believe. It is living truth to you: to me, upon my conscience, only folk-lore. I do not believe there is any form of words under heaven by which I can lift the burthen from my shoulders. I must stagger on to the end with the pack of my responsibility; I cannot shift it; do you suppose I would not if I thought I could? I cannot—cannot—cannot—and let that suffice.”