He was so anxious to do what was right, and so ready to
believe that everyone knew better than himself, that he never ventured
to admit to himself that he might be all the while on a hopelessly
wrong track. It did not occur to him that there might be a blunder
anywhere, much less did it occur to him to try and find out where
the blunder was. Nevertheless he became daily more full of malaise,
and daily, only he knew it not, more ripe for an explosion should a
spark fall upon him.
One thing, however, did begin to loom out of the general
vagueness, and to this he instinctively turned as trying to seize
it- I mean, the fact that he was saving very few souls, whereas
there were thousands and thousands being lost hourly all around him
which a little energy such as Mr. Hawke's might save. Day after day
went by, and what was he doing? Standing on professional etiquette,
and praying that his shares might go up and down as he wanted them, so
that they might give him money enough to enable him to regenerate
the universe. But in the meantime the people were dying. How many
souls would not be doomed to endless ages of the most frightful
torments that the mind could think of, before he could bring his
spiritual pathology engine to bear upon them? Why might he not stand
and preach as he saw the Dissenters doing sometimes in Lincoln's Inn
Fields and other thoroughfares? He could say all that Mr.
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