“Wait! Wait a minute,” said Ferris, waving his hand like a man tormented by a passing pain. “I am trying to think. What you say is.... I cannot imagine it!”
“Not imagine it? Not imagine it? And why? Is she not beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“And good?”
“Without doubt.”
“And young, and yet wise beyond her years? And true, and yet angelically kind?”
“It is all as you say, God knows. But.... a priest”—
“Oh! Always that accursed word! And at heart, what is a priest, then, but a man?—a wretched, masked, imprisoned, banished man! Has he not blood and nerves like you? Has he not eyes to see what is fair, and ears to hear what is sweet? Can he live near so divine a flower and not know her grace, not inhale the fragrance of her soul, not adore her beauty? Oh, great God! And if at last he would tear off his stifling mask, escape from his prison, return from his exile, would you gainsay him?”
“No!” said the painter with a kind of groan. He sat down in a tall, carven gothic chair,—the furniture of one of his pictures,—and rested his head against its high back and looked at the priest across the room. “Excuse me,” he continued with a strong effort. “I am ready to befriend you to the utmost of my power. What was it you wanted to ask me? I have told you truly what I thought of your scheme of going to America; but I may very well be mistaken. Was it about that Miss Vervain desired you to consult me?” His voice and manner hardened again in spite of him. “Or did she wish me to advise you about the renunciation of your priesthood? You must have thought that carefully over for yourself.”
“Yes, I do not think you could make me see that as a greater difficulty than it has appeared to me.” He paused with a confused and daunted air, as if some important point had slipped his mind. “But I must take the step; the burden of the double part I play is unendurable, is it not?”