He had his answer.
"And the portrait yonder, that will tell you. It is not hers, you will say. But it is not mine, nor a vision, except as you have glorified her. In spite of yourself, you are true. And in spite of herself, Sybella believes in you."
"Such a collection of incoherent fragments from the lips of an artist accustomed to treat of unities,—it is incomprehensible."
So the painter began; but he ended,—
"When I come back from battle, I will think of what you say. I do believe in my own integrity as firmly as I trust my loyalty."
There was a rare gentleness in the man's voice that seemed to say that mists were rising to envelop the summits of the mountains, and he looked forth, not to the bald heights, but along the purple heather-reaches, where any human feet might walk, finding pleasant paths, fair flowers, cool shades, and blessed reflections of heaven.
V.
The rector of St. Peter's sat in the vestry-room, which he used for his study, when there came an interruption to the even tenor of his orthodox thinking.
Whoever sought him did so with a determination that carried the various doors between him and the study, and at last came the knock, of which he sat in momentary dread. It expressed the outsider so imperatively, that the minister at once laid aside his pen, and opened the door. And, alas! it was Saturday, p. m.,—Easter at hand!
He should have been glad, of course, of the cordial hand-grasp with which his stanch supporter, Gerald Deane, saluted him; but he had been interrupted in necessary work, and his face betrayed him. It told unqualified surprise, that, at such an hour, he had the honor of a visit from the warden.