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, never
thought he could know, but he sympathized in it not
the less. Strange, indeed, how much we do sympathize,
on the stage, for instance, or in a book, with passions
that have never agitated ourselves! Had Kenelm
jested or reasoned or preached, Tom would have shrunk
at once into dreary silence; but Kenelm said nothing,
save now and then, as he rested his arm, brother-like,
on the strong man’s shoulder, he murmured, “Poor
fellow!” So, then, when Tom had finished his
confessions, he felt wondrously relieved and comforted.
He had cleansed his bosom of the perilous stuff that
weighed upon the heart.
Was this good result effected by Kenelm’s artful
diplomacy, or by that insight into human passions
vouchsafed unconsciously to himself, by gleams or
in flashes, to this strange man who surveyed the objects
and pursuits of his fellows with a yearning desire
to share them, murmuring to himself, “I cannot,
I do not stand in this world; like a ghost I glide
beside it, and look on “?
Thus the two men continued their way slowly, amid
soft pastures and yellowing cornfields, out at length
into the dusty thoroughfares of the main road.
That gained, their talk insensibly changed its tone:
it became more commonplace; and Kenelm permitted himself
the license of those crotchets by which he extracted
a sort of quaint pleasantry out of commonplace itself;
so that from time to time Tom was startled into the
mirth of laughter. This big fellow had one very
agreeable gift, which is only granted, I think, to
men of genuine character and affectionate dispositions,—a
spontaneous and sweet laugh, manly and frank, but
not boisterous, as you might have supposed it would
be. But that sort of laugh had not before come
from his lips, since the day on which his love for
Jessie Wiles had made him at war with himself and
the world.
