Faithlessly as he had behaved to Isy, Blatherwick was not consciously, that
is with purpose or intent, a deceitful man. He had, on the contrary, always
cherished a strong faith in his own honour. But faith in a thing, in an
idea, in a notion, is no proof, or even sign that the thing actually
exists: in the present case it had no root except in the man's thought of
himself, in his presentation to himself of his own reflected self. The man
who thought so much of his honour was in truth a moral unreality, a
cowardly fellow, a sneak who, in the hope of escaping consequences,
carried himself as beyond reproof. How should such a one ever have the
power of spiritual vision developed in him? How should such a one ever see
God--ever exist in the same region in which the soutar had long taken up
his abode? Still there was this much reality in him, and he had made this
much progress that, holding fast by his resolve henceforward no more to
slide, he was aware also of a dim suspicion of something he had not seen,
but which he might become able to see; and was half resolved to think and
read, for the future, with the intent to find out what this strange man
seemed to know, or thought he knew.
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