Punch smiled. “Well, perhaps you’re right. You’ve got your duty. But just remember that it isn’t only children we men and women are begetting. We’re creating all the time. Every time that you laugh at a thought, every time that you’re glad, every time that you’re seeing beauty and saying so, every time that you think it’s better to be decent than not, better to be merry than sad, you’re creating. You’re increasing the happy population of the world. Young Gale was that, and now you’ve found it too. That’s religion; it’s obvious enough. Plenty of other folks have said the same, but precious few have done it.”
Then, as they said good-bye, he said—
“And remember that I’m there if you want me. I’ll always come. I’m always ready. All winter I’m in London. You’ll find me in the corner by the National Gallery, almost opposite the Garrick Theatre, with my show, most nights; I’m your friend always.”
And Maradick knew as he went down the dark stairs that that would not be the last that he would see of him.
He climbed, for the last time, up the hill that ran above the sea. Its hard white line ran below him to the town, and above him across the moor through the little green wood that fringed the hill. For a moment his figure, black and tiny, was outlined against the sky. There was a wind up here and it swept around his feet.
Far below him the sea lay like a blue stone, hard and sharply chiselled. Behind him the white road curved like a ribbon above him, and around him was the delicate bending hollow of the sky.
For a moment he stood there, a tiny doll of a man.
The wind whistled past him laughing. Three white clouds sailed majestically above his head. The hard black body of the wood watched him tolerantly.
He passed again down the white road.