She was surprised and taken aback a little at his reply. "Yes," he said heavily, "I would." She was not to understand his meaning for a long time.
She laughed, not because she was amused, but because she could think of nothing to say. The sound seemed to brighten him a little.
"Of course you understand," he said, "that when I speak of the failure of The Dispatch I mean comparative failure. It's losing now ... but not so much as it lost at first. Next year it should do better. I don't mean that it will be profitable. I doubt if you'll ever take out much more than you put in. Still...."
"Mr. Good," she interrupted severely, "you annoy me. Here you are talking about profit. Did you ever talk profit before? Did I go into it for profit? Has any of the money I've given to the church ever paid any dividends? Is charity profitable? You're utterly absurd. Let's have no more of this sorry pessimism. Profit! Really, you amaze me."
"You amaze me more," said Good with a quizzical smile. Suddenly his voice changed and his eyes closed. "The whole problem of life," he murmured dreamily, "is to reconcile the soul and the body. Part of us is kin to the angels. We get very near to heaven, sometimes. We all have our moments of strength. We leave the clay—but we fall back. Hell is only the burden of flesh. Ah well—I've had my moment. Some day I may have another. Perhaps here. Perhaps not. Perhaps what I have seen of heaven will come to someone else. Maybe that's the true reincarnation. We die and our light goes out. Perhaps we weaken and put it out ourselves. But maybe it does not really go out at all. Who knows? It may have been taken from us and placed in fresh hands—and so, on and on, through struggle and failure, and success and treachery and cowardice and courage ... until the great purpose of it all is realised. We're only woodpeckers on a tree. And Igdrasil is mighty. Some peck more, some peck less—none does much. But perhaps it's only how we peck that counts. Maybe so—maybe so...."
His voice died away and he covered his face with his hands. It seemed to Judith that a veil had been momentarily raised, permitting a glimpse into a heart which was bruised and weary, but in which courage—the courage which has known defeat, the noblest of all—still reigned. The walls of the familiar room faded into illimitable distance, the breeze rustling the leaves outside sank suddenly, and out of the silence came a sweet, mysterious song filling her heart with exaltation, a sense of grace which hurt.
Then the light declined quickly, and there was a crimson glow in the west, gradually purpling.
"I must go," he said abruptly. "It's late."
"Oh—won't you stay to dinner?"
"No."