“Yes, I think I can call it a narrow escape.”

The voices ceased,—­five o’clock,—­the curtains were rosy with lamp light, and conscience awoke in the langours of convalescent hours.  “I stood on the verge of death!” The whisper died away.  John was still very weak, and he had not strength to think with much insistance, but now and then remembrance surprised him suddenly like pain; it came unexpectedly, he knew not whence nor how, but he could not choose but listen.  Each interval of thought grew longer; the scabs of forgetfulness were picked away, the red sore was exposed bleeding and bare.  Was he responsible for those words?  He could remember them all now; each like a burning arrow lacerated his bosom, and he pulled them to and fro.  Remembrance in the watches of the night, dawn fills the dark spaces of a window, meditations grow more and more lucid.  He could now distinguish the instantaneous sensation of wrong that had flashed on his excited mind in the moment of his sinning....  Then he could think no more, and in the twilight of contrition he dreamed vaguely of God’s great goodness, of penance, of ideal atonements.  Christ hung on the cross, and far away the darkness was seared with flames and demons.

And as strength returned, remembrance of his blasphemies grew stronger and fiercer, and often as he lay on his pillow, his thoughts passing in long procession, his soul would leap into intense suffering.  “I stood on the verge of death with blasphemies on my tongue.  I might have been called to confront my Maker with horrible blasphemies in my heart and on my tongue; but He in His Divine goodness spared me:  He gave me time to repent.  Am I answerable, O my God, for those dreadful words that I uttered against Thee, because I suffered a little pain, against Thee Who once died on the cross to save me!  O God, Lord, in Thine infinite mercy look down on me, on me!  Vouchsafe me Thy mercy, O my God, for I was weak!  My sin is loathsome; I prostrate myself before Thee, I cry aloud for mercy!”

Then seeing Christ amid His white million of youths, beautiful singing saints, gold curls and gold aureoles, lifted throats, and form of harp and dulcimer, he fell prone in great bitterness on the misery of earthly life.  His happinesses and ambitions appeared to him less than the scattering of a little sand on the sea-shore.  Joy is passion, passion is suffering; we cannot desire what we possess, therefore desire is rebellion prolonged indefinitely against the realities of existence; when we attain the object of our desire, we must perforce neglect it in favour of something still unknown, and so we progress from illusion to illusion.  The winds of folly and desolation howl about us; the sorrows of happiness are the worst to bear, and the wise soon learn that there is nothing to dream of but the end of desire....  God is the one ideal, the Church the one shelter from the misery and meanness of life.  Peace is inherent in lofty arches, rapture in painted panes....  See the mitres and crosiers, the blood-stained heavenly breasts, the loin-linen hanging over orbs of light....  Listen! ah! the voices of chanting boys, and out of the cloud of incense come Latin terminations, and the organ still is swelling.