Their grief was more than sentiment for the "crack in his voice or a certain break in his walk," as Wells put it.

These people had leaned on Monsignor's faith, his way of finding cheer, of making religion a thing of lights and shadows, making all light and shadow merely aspects of God.

People felt safe when he was near.
Of Amory's attempted sacrifice had been born merely the full realization of his disillusion, but of Monsignor's funeral was born the romantic elf who was to enter the labyrinth with him.

He found something that he wanted, had always wanted and always would want--not to be admired, as he had feared; not to be loved, as he had made himself believe; but to be necessary to people, to be indispensable; he remembered the sense of security he had found in Burne.
Life opened up in one of its amazing bursts of radiance and Amory suddenly and permanently rejected an old epigram that had been playing listlessly in his mind: "Very few things matter and nothing matters very much." On the contrary, Amory felt an immense desire to give people a sense of security.
***** THE BIG MAN WITH GOGGLES On the day that Amory started on his walk to Princeton the sky was a colorless vault, cool, high and barren of the threat of rain.

It was a gray day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far hopes and clear visions.