"There must be. . . . There must be. . . . To go out like this when one's heart and soul are at their strongest. And He is loving, I can't but fancy. He smiles, perhaps, at the importance that we give to death and to pain. So short a time it must seem to Him that we are here. . . . But if He isn't. . . . If there is nothing more—— What a cruel, cold game for Something to play with us——"
Henry knew then that Duncombe was sure he would not survive the operation. An aching longing to do something for him held him, but a power greater than either of them had caught him and he could only sit and stare at the colours as they came flocking into the garden with the evening sky, at the white line that was suddenly drawn above the garden wall, at two stars that were thrown like tossed diamonds into the branches of the mulberry.
"Yes—I know God exists," something that was not Henry's body whispered.
"God must exist to explain all the love that there is in the world," he said.
"And all the hatred too," Duncombe answered, looking upward at the two stars. "Why do we hate one another? Why all this temper and scorn, sport and cruelty? Men want to do right—almost every man and woman alive. And the rules are so simple—fidelity, unselfishness, loving, kindliness, humility—but we can't manage them except in little spurts. . . . But then why should they be there at all? All the old questions!" He broke off. "Come, let us go in. It's cold." He got up and took Henry's arm. They walked slowly across the lawn together.
"Henry," he said, "remember to expect nothing very wonderful of men. Remember that they don't change, but that they are all in the same box together—so love them. Love them whenever you can, not dishonestly, because you think it a pretty thing to do, but honestly, because you can't help yourself. Don't condemn. Don't be impatient because of their weaknesses. That has been the failure of my life. I have been so badly disappointed again and again that I retired into myself, would not let them touch me—and so I lost them. But you are different—you are idealistic. Don't lose that whatever foolish things you may be dragged into. It seems to me so simple now that the end of everything has come and it is too late—love of man, love of God even if He does not exist, love of work—humility because the time is so short and we are all so weak."
By the door he stopped, dropping his voice. "Be patient with my sister to-night. I am going to tell her about my affair. It will distress her very much. Assure her that it is unimportant, will soon be right. Poor Meg!"
He pressed Henry's arm and went forward alone into the dark house.
But how tiresome it is! That very same evening Henry, filled with noble thoughts and a longing for self-sacrifice, was as deeply and as childishly irritated by the events of the evening and by Lady Bell-Hall as he had ever been. In the first place, when he was dressing and had just found a clean handkerchief and was ready to go downstairs, the button-hole of his white shirt burst under his collar and he was forced to undress again and was ten minutes late downstairs.