He was
irritated, distressed.
Providence seemed to have sent the Archdeacon to advise him. And the
Archdeacon had spoken with decision. "Burn it," that was what he had
said, "and tell your friend that you have done so."
It did not strike Mr. Gresley that the advice might have been somewhat
different if the question had been respecting the burning of a book
instead of a letter. Such subtleties had never been allowed to occupy
Mr. Gresley's mind. He was, as he often said, no splitter of hairs.
He told himself that from the very first moment of consulting him he had
dreaded that the Archdeacon would counsel exactly as he had done. Mr.
Gresley stood a long time in silent prayer by his study window. If his
prayers took the same bias as his recent statements to his friend, was
that his fault? If he silenced, as a sign of cowardice, a voice within
him which entreated for delay, was that his fault? If he had never
educated himself to see any connection between a seed and a plant, a
cause and a result, was that his fault? The first seedling impulse to
destroy the book was buried and forgotten. If he mistook this towering,
full-grown determination which had sprung from it for the will of God,
the direct answer to prayer, was that his fault?
As his painful duty became clear to him, a thin veil of smoke drifted
across the little lawn.
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