“I have very little more to say, only this: I believe all that I have given you has not been given uselessly. I believe that the love of the flesh will die with the flesh. But my love for you has been something more and higher than that, or how has it lived without hope, and in spite of its dishonour, through so many years? It is of the spirit, and I believe that its life will be like that of the spirit, unending, and that when this hateful existence is done with I shall in some way reap its fruits with you.”
“Why do you believe that, Ernest? It seems too happy to be true.”
“Why do I believe it? I cannot tell you. Perhaps it is nothing but the fantasy of a mind broken down with brooding on its grief. In trouble we grow towards the light—like a plant in the dark, you know. As a crushed flower smells sweet, so all that is most aspiring in human nature is called into life when God lays His heavy hand upon us. Heaven is sorrow’s sole ambition. No, Eva, I do not know why I believe it—certainly you have given me no grounds for this—but I do believe it, and it comforts me. By the way, how did you know that I was here?”
“I passed you on the Hoe this morning, walking with Dorothy.”
Ernest started. “I felt you pass,” he said, “and asked Dorothy who it was. She said she did not know.”
“She knew, but I made a sign to her not to say.”
“Oh!”
“Ernest, will you promise me something?” asked Eva, wildly.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. I have changed my mind—nothing at all!”