g up, the conflict over; and nothing could be more apparent than that
he had no intention of entering the battle-field again. When he had
ended, there was another pause.

"I am not going to argue with you," said Frank Wentworth; "I don't even
need to tell you that I am grieved to the heart. It isn't so very many
years ago," said the younger brother, almost too much touched by the
recollection to preserve his composure, "since I took all my opinions
from you; and since the time came for independent action, I too have
gone over all this ground. My conclusions have been very different from
yours, Gerald. I see you are convinced, and I can say nothing; but they
do not convince me--you do not convince me, nor the sight of your faith,
though that is the most touching of all arguments. Will you go back and
go over it again?" said the Curate, spurred, by a thought of poor
Louisa, to contradict himself, while the words were still on his lips.

"No," said Gerald; "it would be of no use, Frank. We should only grieve
each other more."

"Then I give up that subject," said the younger brother: "but there
is one matter which I must go back to. You may go to Rome, and cease
to be a priest of the Anglican Church, but you cannot cease to be a
man, to bear the weight of your natural duties. Don't turn away, but
hear me. Gerald, Louisa--"

"Don't say any more. Do you imagine I have not thought of that?" said
Gerald, once more, with a gesture of pain, and something like terror;
"I have put my hand to the plough and I cannot go back. If I am not a
priest, I am nothing." But when he came to that point, his cedar-tree
no longer gave him any assistance; he came back to his chair, and
covered his face with his hands.

"Louisa is your wife; you are not like a man free from the bonds of
nature," said the Curate of St Roque's. "It is not for me to speak of
the love between you; but I hold it, as the Scripture says, for a holy
mystery, like the love of Christ for his Church--the most sacred of
all bonds," said the young man, with a certain touch of awe and
emotion, as became a young man and a true lover. He made a little
pause to regain command of himself before he continued, "And she is
dependent on you--outwardly, for all the comfort of her life--and in
her heart, for everything, Gerald. I do not comprehend what that duty
is which could make you leave her, all helpless and tender, as you
know her to be, upon the mercies of the world. She hers