The door opened on to a clamour of dogs. Sarah and Selina, shrill with welcome, barked in chorus around Larry, who appeared to have just arrived. “Now what the devil——” muttered North to himself, while Larry smote him with a feathered paw, and begged with wistful eyes for pardon.
Ruth sat very late out on her terrace that night. The heavens were dark, but full of stars. Their radiance filled all space. Who and what was it had spoken those words this afternoon, for neither the thought nor the words had been her own? She believed it was a true thought; something deeper than brain or understanding knew it was true. And Ruth Seer sat and prayed. Was she on the threshold of that Open Doorway, which in all ages men have sought and sought in vain? Had she somehow stumbled on something vast and beyond all measure valuable? She knew how valuable, she had seen the dead men lie in thousands waiting burial, and heard with her soul the tears of their women. Gone, as Violet Riversley said, out of sight, or touch, or sound. And yet surely a communion deeper and fuller than sight, or touch, or hold, had sprung up, was growing, between herself and one of those dead men. A man unknown to her on this physical plane. That was the crowning wonder of this wonderful thing which was happening. How had it come about? What did it mean? And it was no thing apart from this earthly life, from the little daily round. It was no other world.
The night deepened. A magic of starlight lay on the farm, on the dull silver of the stream, over the violet distances. The little farm she loved, with all its sleeping creatures, belonged to the wonderful whole, the great space, the immensity of light, the glory and the mystery.
The beauty of it all was like a draught of wine, was like a silver sword, was like a harp of gold.
And suddenly a nightingale began to sing. A small brown-feathered thing with that wonder of sound in its tiny throat. And then it came. Faith—Hope—they cannot pass the open door—only Love. And love not of one to another, however deep, however true, but love of the universal whole, that love which she and Dick Carey had in common, focused as it were on Thorpe. That was the password, that the key, that the communion between the living and the dead which she had found.
And Larry, lying at her feet, for North had let him stay, waved a slow-moving tail, and dreamed, content.
Up above, on the hill, the lights of the great Pithian mansion, with all it symbolized, went out one by one, and Ruth, who loved her England, was not afraid.
A deep sense of great responsibility remained. If that which she had sensed was really so, and she had neither then nor at any later time any doubt of it, what had They, with their wider knowledge, the great advance in evolution which they who had made the supreme gift of all they had on this physical plane must surely have attained, what had They to build the new order with save those who were left? Living stones for the Great New Temple never made with hands.
The glory of it touched Ruth as with a sudden blaze of light. The thought was like a bugle call. To work with for them still. She had only herself to offer. One small stone to shape for use, to make as perfect as might be. She offered it under the starlit heavens with all her heart. Life took on a new and more beautiful meaning, any work of service a deeper, fuller joy. It was still for, and with, Them.