But it was a grievance to a grievance-
making temper, such as I feel mine was.
The most wholesome thing I received was a letter from Prometesky, to
whom I had written the tidings that Harold would never need his
comfort more. The old man was where the personal loss was not felt,
and he knew more deeply than anyone the pain which that strong
fervent heart suffered in its self-conquests, so that he did not
grieve for Harold himself; but he gave me that sympathy of entire
appreciation of my loss which is far better than compassion. For
himself, he said his last link with the world was gone, he found the
peace, and the expression of penitence, his soul required, in the
course he was about to embrace, and I might look on this as a voice
from the grave. I should never hear of him more, but I should know
that, as long as life was left him, it would be spent in prayers for
those whose souls he had wrecked in his overboiling youth. He ended
with thanks to all of us, who he said had sent him to his retreat
with more kindly and charitable recollections than he should
otherwise have carried thither. I never did hear of him again;
Dermot went to the convent some years later, and tried to ascertain
if he lived, but the monks do not know each others' names, and it
failed.
The village of St. Clement's, a small fishing-place, was half-a-mile
off, through lanes a foot deep in mud, and with a good old sleepy
rector of the old school, not remarkable for his performances in
Church.
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