The old man's look and gesture were sublime.
The Preacher felt a thrill vibrate from his ear to his heart; but his reason was less affected than his heart. He shook his head mournfully. The task thus assigned to him was beyond the limits which custom prescribes to the priest of the English Church—dictation to a man not even of his own flock, upon the closest affairs of that man's own private hearth and home! Our society allows no such privilege; and our society is right.
Waife, watching his countenance, saw at once what was passing in his mind, and resumed, as if answering George's own thought.
"Ay, if you were but the commonplace priest! But you are something more; you are the priest specially endowed for all special purposes of good. You have the mind to reason—the tongue to persuade—the majestic earnestness of impassioned zeal. Nor are you here the priest alone; you are here the friend, the confidant, of all for whom you may exert your powers. Oh, George Morley, I am a poor ignorant blunderer when presuming to exhort you as Christian minister; but in your own words—I address you as man and gentleman—you declared that 'thought and zeal should not stammer whenever I said—Keep your promise.' I say it now—Keep faith to the child you swore to me to befriend!"
"I will go—and at once," said George, rising. "But be not sanguine. I see not a chance of success. A man so superior to myself in years, station, abilities, repute!"
"Where would be Christianity," said Waife, "if the earliest preachers had raised such questions? There is a soldier's courage—is there not a priest's?"
George made no answer, but, with abstracted eye, gathered brow, and slow meditative step, quitted the room, and sought Guy Darrell.
