“Then, my friend, study to apply,—for
it requires constant study,—study to apply
that which you understand to your own case. You
are something more than Tom Bowles, the smith and doctor
of horses; something more than the magnificent animal
who rages for his mate and fights every rival:
the bull does that. You are a soul endowed with
the capacity to receive the idea of a Creator so divinely
wise and great and good that, though acting by the
agency of general laws, He can accommodate them to
all individual cases, so that—taking into
account the life hereafter, which He grants to you
the capacity to believe—all that troubles
you now will be proved to you wise and great and good
either in this life or the other. Lay that truth
to your heart, friend, now—before the bell
stops ringing; recall it every time you hear the church-bell
ring again. And oh, Tom, you have such a noble
nature!—”
“I—I! don’t jeer me,—don’t.”
“Such a noble nature; for you can love so passionately,
you can war so fiercely, and yet, when convinced that
your love would be misery to her you love, can resign
it; and yet, when beaten in your war, can so forgive
your victor that you are walking in this solitude with
him as a friend, knowing that you have but to drop
a foot behind him in order to take his life in an
unguarded moment; and rather than take his life, you
would defend it against an army. Do you think
I am so dull as not to see all that? and is not all
that a noble nature?”
Tom Bowles covered his face with his hands, and his
broad breast heaved.
“Well, then, to that noble nature I now trust.
I myself have done little good in life. I may
never do much; but let me think that I have not crossed
your life in vain for you and for those whom your
life can colour for good or for bad. As you are
strong, be gentle; as you can love one, be kind to
all; as you have so much that is grand as Man,—that
is, the highest of God’s works on earth,—let
all your acts attach your manhood to the idea of Him,
to whom the voice of the bell appeals. Ah! the
bell is hushed; but not your heart, Tom,—that
speaks still.”
Tom was weeping like a child.
NOW when our two travellers resumed their journey,
the relationship between them had undergone a change;
nay, you might have said that their characters were
also changed. For Tom found himself pouring out
his turbulent heart to Kenelm, confiding to this philosophical
scoffer at love all the passionate humanities of love,—its
hope, its anguish, its jealousy, its wrath,—the
all that links the gentlest of emotions to tragedy
and terror. And Kenelm, listening tenderly, with
softened eyes, uttered not one cynic word,—nay,
not one playful jest. He, felt that the gravity
of all he heard was too solemn for mockery, too deep
even for comfort. True love of this sort was
a thing he had never known, never wished to know,
