He crossed one of the bridges and stood
a moment in the empty place before the great cathedral; then he went
in beneath the grossly-imaged portals. He wandered some distance up the
nave and sat down in the splendid dimness. He sat a long time; he heard
far-away bells chiming off, at long intervals, to the rest of the world.
He was very tired; this was the best place he could be in. He said no
prayers; he had no prayers to say. He had nothing to be thankful for,
and he had nothing to ask; nothing to ask, because now he must take care
of himself. But a great cathedral offers a very various hospitality, and
Newman sat in his place, because while he was there he was out of the
world. The most unpleasant thing that had ever happened to him had
reached its formal conclusion, as it were; he could close the book and
put it away. He leaned his head for a long time on the chair in front of
him; when he took it up he felt that he was himself again. Somewhere
in his mind, a tight knot seemed to have loosened. He thought of the
Bellegardes; he had almost forgotten them. He remembered them as people
he had meant to do something to. He gave a groan as he remembered what
he had meant to do; he was annoyed at having meant to do it; the bottom,
suddenly, had fallen out of his revenge. Whether it was Christian
charity or unregenerate good nature--what it was, in the background of
his soul--I don't pretend to say; but Newman's last thought was that
of course he would let the Bellegardes go.
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