The door opened and closed again--he was gone. A great silence,--a horrible oppression and loneliness fell upon Walden's heart. He sank into his accustomed chair and stared before him with unseeing eyes,- -mechanically patting his dog Nebbie while gently pushing the animal back in its attempts to clamber on his knee.
"My God, my God!" he muttered--"What shall I do without her?"
Someone opened the door again just then. He started, thinking that Forsyth had returned perhaps to tell him something he had forgotten. But the tall attenuated form that confronted him was not that of Forsyth. A look of amazed recognition, almost of awe, flashed into his eyes.
"Brent!" he cried,--and he caught at the pale hands extended to him,--hands like those of a saint whose flesh is worn by fasting and prayer;--then, with something of a sob, exclaimed again--"Harry! How--why did you come?"
Brent's eyes met his with a world of sympathy and tenderness in their dark and melancholy depths.
"I have come,"--he said,--and his musical voice, grave and sweet, trembled with deep feeling--"because I think this is your dark hour, John!--and because---perhaps---you may need me!"
And John, meeting that sad and steadfast gaze, and shaken beyond control by his pent-up suffering and suspense, suddenly fell on his knees.
"Help me!" he cried, appealingly, with the tears struggling in his throat--"You are right--I need you! Help me to be strong--you are nearer God than I am! Pray for me!"
Gently the Bishop withdrew his hands from the fevered clasp that held them, and laid them tenderly on the bowed head. His lips moved, but he uttered no words. There was a solemn pause, broken only by the slow ticking of the clock in the outer hall.
Presently, rising in obedience to his friend's persuasive touch, Walden stood awhile with face turned away, trying to master himself, yet trembling in every nerve, despite his efforts.
"Brent,"--he began, huskily--"I am ashamed that you should see me like this---so weak---"
"A weakness that will make you stronger by and by, John!" and the Bishop linked a friendly arm within his own--"Come into the church with me, will you? I feel the influence of your enshrined Saint upon me! Let us wait for news, good or bad, at the altar,--and while waiting, we will pray. Do you remember what I said to you when you came to see me last summer? 'Some day, when we are in very desperate straits, we will see what your Saint can do for us'? Come!"