Here was Mary’s opportunity. Painfully anxious as she had been as to her lover’s religious convictions, she had shrunk, hitherto, from a direct question. But it would be easy now, she saw, to lead him on to a full confession of his faith without seeming to interrogate him.
She began by drawing him out on Homer; but what he said she hardly heard, so tremulously eager was she to know what he thought of that other little book which he held in his hand. One thing struck her at the time, and she had cause to remember it afterwards: the strong admiration he evinced for the character of Achilles, the flinty-hearted captain of the Myrmidons.
Presently she said, in a low voice, “You hold them side by side; but could two books be more different?”
He laid the Iliad upon the seat beside him, and taking the other little volume in his hand, held it up before him. As he did so, there was something in his look that thrilled her with expectancy. While he had been indicating the clear-cut outlines of Homer’s marvellous creation, she had felt (though hardly hearing with more than her outward ear) that he spoke admirably, and remarked the high intellectuality that illumined his features; but now a sudden glow suffused his countenance, and strange, soft lights danced in his eyes. She hung upon his opening lips with deep suspense; for something told her that upon the words he was about to utter her own happiness depended.
The hour that followed was passed in a way which is probably rare with parting lovers.
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“No. I have never read Chateaubriand’s Genie du Christianisme, and,” added he, with an admiring glance, “I am glad of it; for otherwise I should not have heard your brilliant version of what he says. I am afraid, however, that, well as he puts it, I am hardly frank enough to admit that parts of the Old Testament are superior, as mere literature, to everything that the Greeks have left us. The truth is, however, that I know so little of the Old Testament that I have no right to an opinion; but this little book,” continued he, holding it up, “I know by heart. I mean the gospels,” he added, quickly; “and I don’t hesitate to say that in all literature you shall not find such a gem.”
The gospels a gem of literature! A weight seemed to press on Mary’s heart.
“Listen!” And he opened the book, and turning a few pages with nervous eagerness, found a passage. “Listen! Could anything be more beautiful?”