“First, however, let me state to you the circumstances which make me desirous to rid myself of the passion which I have confessed, thereby anticipating the question which is sure to rise to your lips. You are aware, of course, that the High Church movement in this country, as well as in England, has resulted in the formation of certain brotherhoods of the clergy, bound together by vows more or less approaching in strictness those which govern the clergy of the Church of Rome?”
“I was not aware of the fact,” I replied, as the young clergyman paused for an answer.
“It is indeed so,” he continued. “You will not be surprised, then, to know that by the vows of the Brotherhood of St. Michael, to which I consecrated myself soon after the days of my novitiate, celibacy is as strictly enjoined as upon the priesthood of the Church of Rome.”
“Indeed!” I exclaimed, carried away by some sudden feeling, which I cannot even now defend. “The more fools—”
But here I stopped, the great brown eyes with something like a flash of Olympic lightning piercing and enchaining mine. In another instant the deep, rich voice proceeded:—
“For ten years I have kept every vow of the brotherhood referring to woman, without a single spiritual struggle—wearing these restraints as Samson wore his chains. But something less than six months ago I met a woman—”
The young clergyman paused, throwing his head back against the green baize of the easy-chair in which he sat. For a moment I thought he had fainted, and sprang for a cordial; but, without taking his slowly opening eyes from the ceiling, he motioned me back, and continued, while an indescribably sweet and almost transfiguring smile lit his pale face:—
“A woman, said I? An angel! A vision of transcendent loveliness! She came into my life as a new star comes across the disk of an astronomer’s telescope, shedding its undiscovered light from eternity for him alone. O my Ethel! My angel! My lips yearn toward yours, my arms grope out to clasp you!—My God! What am I saying?”
The young priest sprang from his chair and stood trembling before me. His face was livid with the exercise of some tremendous mental effort, and I could see that the white nails of his clenched hands were driven deep into the flesh. For a full minute he stood thus, and then his strong frame relaxed, and he sank back into his chair, white as the paper on which I write, and weak as a babe. This time I pressed the cordial to his lips, and he did not refuse it. Presently he looked up with a faint smile, and said, “Now, sir, you see what my malady is. I have no need to describe it any farther.”
I stepped to the window and gazed up into the gray sky, as if looking for a solution of my perplexity. But my mind remained as blank as the dull expanse above the city roofs. Was this man insane, or was he really, as he said, in his right mind? Could the force of a mere amorous passion for a beautiful woman so carry away one of his character unless the man’s mental integrity was impaired? I turned suddenly, in response to the young clergyman’s voice. He had risen, and was advancing towards me.