"So all that splendid work was done for the sake of our cathedral?"
"Partly, but not in the first place. Do you remember of what use our cathedral was to be in the world? It wasn't merely to be a monument to our own glory—it was to be a sheltering place for others, an example to them, an inspiration. You said once, very rightly, that if every here and there a human being made a cathedral out of his life, other people would soon get ashamed of their mud-huts, and pull them down. They would try to build cathedrals on a bigger and nobler scale than the first one, and probably would succeed. Thus the work would go on from one generation to another. It was an idea worthy to form the foundations of a man's ambition. I made it mine, as I knew you had made it yours. It strengthened me to think that every decent action was a fresh stone to the building which in the end would stand perfect—not to my glory, but to the glory of the whole human race." He smiled, though his eyes remained serious. "As an Englishman, I can not help wishing that cathedrals should be most plentiful on English soil."
"Do you really think that one small human life can make so much difference?" she asked, rather bitterly. "I used to think so, in my self-important days, but I am beginning to believe that our little individual efforts are hopelessly lost in a sea of rubbish."
"Our youthful conceit is more justifiable than such self-disparagement," he answered. "I often think that humility—at any rate a certain kind—is a questionable virtue. In lessening our own value, we lessen our own responsibility, and our responsibility is tremendous. One life can make the difference of a cathedral spire in a town of low-built huts or of a snow mountain in an ugly plain. I am sure of it—and so are you. So is everybody who thinks about it. But people do not think. It is sometimes much more convenient to believe that one is too insignificant to have any responsibility. But to my mind there is not a vagabond in the street who is not directly helping on our national decay, and who might not be building up the Empire." He leaned toward her, lowering his voice. "You know I am not just talking, Lois. It is my life's principle which I lay before you—mine and yours. How long is it since we have spoken of these things? Ten years. Since then we have been building steadily at our cathedral. We must go on."
"How can we?" she answered wearily. "It is not our cathedral any more.
I thought you had forgotten, and—"
"My first day in Marut I sent a message to you—a little in fun, but with an earnest purpose. I wanted to see if you had forgotten, and I wanted you to know that I had remembered. I told you that the cathedral still lacked its chief spire."
"I never got the message. It was that day Archibald asked me to be his wife. When did you send the letter?"
"It was not a letter but a verbal message, by Travers."
"That afternoon?"
"Yes, that afternoon."