'Yes! I have been sorry to hear of all she has had to bear; not
merely the common and universal sorrow arising from death, but
all the annoyance which her father's conduct must have caused
her, and then----' 'Her father's conduct!' said Mr. Bell, in an accent of
surprise. 'You must have heard some wrong statement. He behaved in
the most conscientious manner. He showed more resolute strength
than I should ever have given him credit for formerly.' 'Perhaps I have been wrongly informed. But I have been told, by
his successor in the living--a clever, sensible man, and a
thoroughly active clergyman--that there was no call upon Mr. Hale
to do what he did, relinquish the living, and throw himself and
his family on the tender mercies of private teaching in a
manufacturing town; the bishop had offered him another living, it
is true, but if he had come to entertain certain doubts, he could
have remained where he was, and so had no occasion to resign. But
the truth is, these country clergymen live such isolated
lives--isolated, I mean, from all intercourse with men of equal
cultivation with themselves, by whose minds they might regulate
their own, and discover when they were going either too fast or
too slow--that they are very apt to disturb themselves with
imaginary doubts as to the articles of faith, and throw up
certain opportunities of doing good for very uncertain fancies of
their own.' 'I differ from you. I do not think they are very apt to do as my
poor friend Hale did.' Mr. Bell was inwardly chafing.
'Perhaps I used too general an expression, in saying "very apt."
But certainly, their lives are such as very often to produce
either inordinate self-sufficiency, or a morbid state of
conscience,' replied Mr. Lennox with perfect coolness.
'You don't meet with any self-sufficiency among the lawyers, for
instance?' asked Mr. Bell. 'And seldom, I imagine, any cases of
morbid conscience.' He was becoming more and more vexed, and
forgetting his lately-caught trick of good manners. Mr. Lennox
saw now that he had annoyed his companion; and as he had talked
pretty much for the sake of saying something, and so passing the
time while their road lay together, he was very indifferent as to
the exact side he took upon the question, and quietly came round
by saying: 'To be sure, there is something fine in a man of Mr.
Hale's age leaving his home of twenty years, and giving up all
settled habits, for an idea which was probably erroneous--but
that does not matter--an untangible thought. One cannot help
admiring him, with a mixture of pity in one's admiration,
something like what one feels for Don Quixote. Such a gentleman
as he was too! I shall never forget the refined and simple
hospitality he showed to me that last day at Helstone.' Only half mollified, and yet anxious, in order to lull certain
qualms of his own conscience, to believe that Mr. Hale's conduct
had a tinge of Quixotism in it, Mr. Bell growled out--'Aye! And
you don't know Milton. Such a change from Helstone! It is years
since I have been at Helstone--but I'll answer for it, it is
standing there yet--every stick and every stone as it has done
for the last century, while Milton! I go there every four or five
years--and I was born there--yet I do assure you, I often lose my
way--aye, among the very piles of warehouses that are built upon
my father's orchard. Do we part here? Well, good night, sir; I
suppose we shall meet in Harley Street to-morrow morning.'