That period of doubt was over. His values had righted
themselves. He had carved out new and sound ones; a workable,
up-to-date theory of life. He was in fine trim. His liver--he forgot
that he ever had one. Nepenthe had done him good all round. And he knew
exactly what he wanted. A return to the Church, for example, was out of
the question. His sympathies had outgrown the ideals of that
establishment; a wave of pantheistic benevolence had drowned its smug
little teachings. The Church of England! What was it still good for? A
stepping-stone, possibly towards something more respectable and humane;
a warning to all concerned of the folly of idolizing dead men and their
delusions. The Church? Ghosts!
His thoughts wandered to England. Often had he sighed, in Africa, for
its drowsy verdant opulence--those willow-fringed streamlets and grazing
cattle, the smell of hay, the flowery lanes, the rooks cawing among
slumberous elms; often had he thought of that village on the hill-top
with its grey steeple.
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