“Largely, yes.”
“I do not think that. There are some things bigger to him. Maybe not bigger, but things that he would choose instead of love, if he had to. It is what you do to love that matters. If you come and take it when you haven’t a right to it; when you’d be stealing it; letting other sacred things go for it––then you would be killing love. But if you honour it, even if it is lonely and often sad, it lives and lives and–––”
The universe, at that momentous instant, seemed to rock and tremble. Everything was swept aside as by a Force that but bided its hour and had taken absolute control.
Northrup was never able to connect the two edges of conscious thought that were riven apart by the blinding stroke that left him and Mary-Clare in that space where their souls met. But, thank God, the Force was not evil; it was but revealing.
Northrup drew Mary-Clare to her feet and held her little work-worn hands close.
“You are crying––suffering,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“And–––”
“Oh! please wait”––the deep sobs shook the girl––“you must wait. I’ll try to––to make you see. I was awake that night at the inn––that is why I––trust you now! Why I want you to––to understand.”