"So it has come, John!" he said.
Then and then only the brave eyes fell,--then and then only the firm mouth trembled. But Walden was not the man to shirk any pain or confusion to himself in matters of conscience.
"I suppose it has!" he answered, simply.
The Bishop sat down, and, seemingly out of long habit, raised his eyes to the blandly smiling Virgin and Child above him.
"I am sorry!"--he murmured--"John, my dear old fellow, I am very sorry---"
"Why should you be sorry?" broke out Walden, impetuously, "There is nothing to be sorry for, except that I am a fool! But I knew THAT long ago, even if you did not!"--and he forced a smile--"Don"t be sorry for me, Brent!--I"m not in the least sorry for myself. Indeed, if I tell you the whole truth, I believe I rather like my own folly.
It does n.o.body any harm! And after all it is not absolutely a world"s wonder that a decaying tree should, even in its decaying process, be aware of the touch of spring. It should not make the tree unhappy!"
The Bishop raised his eyes. They were full of a deep melancholy.
"We are not trees--we are men!" he said--"And as men, G.o.d has made us all aware of the love of woman,--the irresistible pa.s.sion that at one time or another makes havoc or glory of our lives! It is the direst temptation on earth. Worst of all and bitterest it is when love comes too late,--too late, John!--I say in your case, it comes too late!"
John sighed and smiled.
"Love--if it has come to me at all--is never too late,"--he said with quiet patience,--"My dear Brent, don"t you understand? This little girl--this child--for she is nothing more than that to a man of my years--has slipped into my life by chance, as it were, like a stray sunbeam--no more! I feel her brightness--her warmth--her vitality--and my soul is conscious of an animation and gladness whenever she is near, of which she is the sole cause. But that is all. Her pretty ways--her utter loneliness,--are the facts of her existence which touch me to pity, and I would see her cared for and protected,--but I know myself to be too old and too unworthy to so care for and protect her. I want her to be happy, but I am fully conscious that I can never make her so. Would you call this kind of chill sentiment "love"?"
Brent regarded him steadfastly.
"Yes, John! I think I should!--yes, I certainly should call "this chill sentiment" love! And tell me--have you never got out of your depth in the water of this "chill sentiment," or found yourself battling for dear life against an outbreak of volcanic fire?"
Walden was silent.
"I never thought,"--continued the Bishop, rather sorrowfully,--"when I wrote to you about the return of Robert Vancourt"s daughter to her childhood"s home, that she would in any serious way interfere with the peace of your life, John! I told you just what I had heard--no more. I have never seen the girl. I only know what people say of her. And that is not altogether pleasing."
"Do you believe what people say?" interrupted Walden, suddenly,--"Is it not true that when a woman is pretty, intelligent, clean-souled and pure-minded, and as unlike the rest of "society" women as she can well be, she is slandered for having the very virtues her rivals do not possess?"
"Quite true!"--said Brent--"and quite common. It is always the old story--"Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny." Do not imagine for a moment, John, that I am going to run the risk of losing your friendship by repeating anything that may have been said against the reputation or the character of Miss Vancourt. I have always prayed that no woman might ever come between us,"--and here a faint tinge of colour warmed the pallor of his face--"And, so far, I fancy the prayer has been granted. And I do not think that this--this--shall we call it glamour, John?--this glamour, of the imagination and the senses, will overcome you in any detrimental way. I cannot picture you as the victim of a "society"
siren!"
John smiled. A vision rose up before his eyes of a little figure in sparkling white draperies--a figure that bent appealingly towards him, while a soft childlike voice said--"I"m sorry! Will you forgive me?" The tender lines round his mouth deepened and softened at the mental picture.
"She is not a society siren,"--he said, gently--"Poor little soul!
She is a mere woman, needing what woman best thrives upon--love!"
"Well, she has been loved and sought in marriage for at least three years by Lord Roxmouth,"--said the Bishop.
"Has SHE been loved and sought, or her aunt"s millions?" queried Walden--"That is the point at issue. But my dear Brent, do not let us waste time in talking over this little folly of mine--for I grant you it is folly. I"m not sorry you have found it out, for in any case I had meant to make a clean breast of it before we parted,"--he hesitated--then looked up frankly--"I would rather you spoke no more of it, Harry! I"ve made my confession. I admit I nearly struck Leveson for slandering an innocent and defenseless woman,--and I believe you"ll forgive me for that. Next, I own that though I am getting into the sere and yellow leaf, I am still conscious of a heart,--and that I feel a regretful yearning at times for the joys I have missed out of my life--and you"ll forgive me for that too,--I know you will! For the rest, draw a curtain over this little weakness of mine, will you? I don"t want to speak of it--I want to fight it and conquer it."
The Bishop stretched out a hand and caught Walden"s in a close grasp.
"Right!"--he said--"Do that, and you will do well! It is all a question of fighting and conquering, or--being conquered. But YOU will never give in, John! You are not the man to yield to the wiles of the devil. For there IS a devil!--I am sure of it!" And his dark eyes flashed with a sudden wild light. "A cozening, crafty, lurking devil, that sets temptation before us in such varied and pleasing forms that it is difficult--sometimes impossible--to tell which is right and which is wrong! Walden, we must escape from this devil--we must escape!"
He sprang up with an impulsive quickness which startled Walden, and began to pace up and down the room again.
"A mocking devil,"--he said--"a lying devil!--whispering from morning till evening, and from evening till morning, doubts of G.o.d!
Doubts whether He, the Creator of worlds, really exists,-doubts as to whether He, or It, is not some huge blind, deaf Force, grinding its way on through limitless and eternal Production and Reproduction to one end,--Annihilation! Walden, you must now hear MY confession!
These doubts are driving me mad! I cannot bear the thought of the whirl of countless universes, immeasurable solar systems, crammed with tortured life for which there seems to be no hope, no care, no rescue, no future! I am unable to preach or to FEEL comfort for the human race! The very tragedy of the Cross only brings me to one result--that Truth is always crucified. The world prefers Falsehood.
So much so indeed that the Christian religion itself is little more than a super-structure of lies raised above the sepulchre of a murdered Truth. I told you in my letter I had serious thoughts of resigning my bishopric. So I have. My spirit turns to Rome!"
"Rome!" cried Walden--"What, YOU, Brent!--you think of going over to Rome? What strange fantasy has seized you?"
"Rome," said Brent, slowly, stopping in his restless walk--"is the Mother of Creeds--the antique Muse of the world"s history! Filled with the blood of martyrs, hallowed by the memories of saints, she is, she must always be, supreme in matters of faith--or superst.i.tion!" And he smiled,--a wan and sorrowful smile--"Or even idolatry, if you will! Emotionalism,--sensationalism in religion-- these the craving soul must have, and these Rome gives! We must believe,--mark you, Walden!--we must positively BELIEVE that the Creator of all Universes was moved to such wrath against the helpless human creature He had made, that he cursed that creature forever for merely eating, like a child, fruit which had been forbidden! And after that we must believe everything else that has since followed in the track of the Woman, the Serpent and the Tree.
Now in the Church of England I find I cannot believe these things-- in the Church of Rome I WILL believe, because I MUST! I will humble myself in dust and ashes, and accept all--all. Anything is better than Nothingness! I will be the lowest of lay brethren, and in solitude and silence, make atonement for my unbelief. It is the only way, Walden!--for me, it is the only way! To Her!" And he pointed up to the picture of the Virgin and Child--"To Her, my vows! As Woman, she will pity me--as Woman, she can be loved!"
Walden heard this wild speech without any word or gesture of interruption. Then, raising his eyes to the picture Brent thus apostrophised, he said, quietly--
"When did you have that painted, Brent?"
A sudden change came over the Bishop"s features. He looked as though startled by some vague terror. Then he answered, slowly:
"Some years ago--in Florence. Why do you ask? It is a copy---"
"Of HER likeness--yes!" said Walden, softly--"I saw that at once.
You had it done, of course! She was beautiful and good--she died young. I know! But you have no right to turn your personal pa.s.sion and grief into a form of worship, Harry!"
The Bishop gazed at him fixedly and solemnly.
"You do not know,"--he murmured--"You have not seen what I have seen! She has come to me lately--she, who died so long ago!--she has come to me night after night, and she has told me to pray for her-- "pray" she says--"pray that I may help to save your soul!" And I must surely do as she bids. I must get away from this place--away from this city of turmoil and wickedness, into some quieter comer of the world,--some monastic retreat where I may end my days in peace,- -I cannot fight my devils here--they are too strong for me!"
"They will be too strong for you anywhere, if you are a coward!"-- said Walden, impetuously. "Brent, I thought you had gotten the victory over this old despair of yours long ago! I thought you had made the memory of the woman you loved a n.o.ble spur to n.o.ble actions! I never dreamed that it would be possible for you to brood silently on your sorrow till you made it a cause of protest against G.o.d"s will! And worst and strangest of all is this frenzied idea of yours to fly to the Church of Rome for shelter from yourself and your secret misery, and there give yourself over to monasticism and a silent, idolatrous worship,--not of Mary, the Mother of Christ,-- but of the mere picture of the woman you loved! And you would pray to THAT?--you would kneel before THAT?--you would pa.s.s long hours of fasting and vigil, gazing at that face, till, like the "stigmata,"
it is almost outlined in blood upon your heart? My dear Brent, is it possible your brain is so shaken and your soul so feeble that you must needs seek refuge in a kind of half-spiritual, half-sensuous pa.s.sion, which is absolute rank blasphemy?"
At this the Bishop raised his head with an air of imperious authority.
"I cannot permit!---" he said, in unsteady accents--"You have no right to speak to me in such a tone--it is not your place---"
Then, suddenly, his voice broke, and throwing himself into his chair, he dropped his head forward on the desk and covered it with his hands in an att.i.tude of the utmost abandonment and dejection.
The moisture rose to Walden"s eyes,--he knew the great tragedy of his friend"s life--all comprised in one brief, romantic episode of the adoring love, and sudden loss of a beautiful woman drowned by accident in her own pleasure-boat on the very eve of her marriage with him,--and be knew that just as deep and ardent as the man"s pa.s.sion had been, so deep and ardent was his sorrow--a sorrow that could never be consoled. And John sat silent, deeply moved in himself, and ever and anon glancing upwards at the exquisite face of the painted Virgin above him,--the face of the dead girl whom her lover had thus sanctified. Presently Brent raised his head,--his face was white and worn--his eyes were wet.
"Forgive me, John!" he said--"I have been working hard of late, and my nerves are unstrung. And--I cannot, I cannot forget her! And what is more awful and terrible to me than anything is that I cannot forgive G.o.d!" He uttered these words in an awed whisper. "I cannot!
I bear the Almighty a grudge for wrenching her life away from mine!
Of what use was it to be so cruel? Of what purpose to kill one so young? If G.o.d is omnipotent, G.o.d could have saved her. But He let her die! I tell you, Walden, that ever since I have been Bishop of this diocese, I have tried to relieve sorrow and pain whenever I have met with it--I have striven to do my duty, hoping against hope that perhaps G.o.d would teach me--would explain the why and wherefore of so much needless agony to His creatures--and that by discovering reasons for the afflictions of others, I should learn to become reconciled to my own. But no!--nothing has been made clear! I have seen innocent women die in the tortures of the d.a.m.ned--while their drunken husbands have lived to carouse over their coffins.
Children,--mere babes--are afflicted with diseases for which often no cause can be a.s.signed and no cure discovered--while over the whole sweltering ma.s.s of human helplessness and ignorance, Death stalks triumphant,--and G.o.d, though called upon for rescue with prayers and tears, withdraws Himself in clouds of impenetrable silence. It is all hopeless, useless, irremediable! That is why my thoughts turn to Rome--I say, let me believe in SOMETHING, if it be only a fairy tale! Let me hear grand music mounting to heaven, even if human words cannot reach so high!--let me think that guardian angels exist, even if there is nothing in s.p.a.ce save a blind Chance sp.a.w.ning life particles uselessly,--let my soul and senses feel the touch of something higher, vaster, purer and better than what the Church of England calls Christianity at this present day!"
"And that "something higher, vaster, purer and better"--would you call it the Church of Rome?" asked Walden. "In suggestion,--in emotion and poetic inspiration, yes!"--said Brent--"In theory and in practice, no!"
There was a pause. Walden sat for a few moments absorbed in anxious thought. Then he looked up with a cheerful air.
"Harry," he said--"Will you do me a favour? Promise that you will postpone the idea of seceding, or as you put it, "returning" to Rome, for six months. Will you? At the end of that time we"ll discuss it again."
The Bishop looked uneasy.
"I would rather do what has to be done at once,"--he said.