“You are wrong, Zouche!—I have always told you you are wrong,” she said emphatically, “It is in your own disordered thoughts that you see no justice and no order,—but Order there is, and Justice there is,—and Compensation for all that seems to go wrong. There is an Intelligence at the core of Creation! It is not for us to measure that Intelligence, or to set any limits to it. Our duty is to recognize it, and to set ourselves as much as possible in harmony with it. Do you never, in sane moments, study the progress of humanity? Do you not see that while the brute creation remains stationary, (some specimens of it even becoming extinct), man goes step by step to higher results? This is, or should be, sufficient proof that death is not the end for us. This world is only one link in our chain of intended experience. I think it depends on ourselves as to what we make of it. Thought is a great power by which we mould ourselves and others; and we have no right to subvert that power to base uses, or to poison it by distrust of good, or disbelief in the Supreme Guidance. You would be a thousand times better as a man, Zouche, and far greater as a poet, if you could believe in God!”
She spoke with eloquence and affectionate earnestness, and among all the men there was a moment’s silence.
“Well, you believe in Him;” said Zouche at last, “and I will catch hold of your angel’s robe as you pass into His Presence and say to Him;—’ Here comes poor Zouche, who wrote of beautiful things among ugly surroundings, and who, in order to be true to his friends, chose poverty rather than the gold of a king!’”
Lotys smiled, very sweetly and indulgently.
“Such a plea would stand you in good stead, Zouche! To be always true to one’s friends, and to persistently believe in beauty, is a very long step towards Heaven!”
“I did not say I believed in beauty,” said Zouche suddenly and obstinately;—“I dream it—I think it—but I do not see it! To me the world is one Horror—nothing but a Grave into which we all must fall! The fairest face has a hideous skull behind it,—the dazzling blue of the sea covers devouring monsters in its depths—the green fields, the lovely woodlands, are full of vile worms and noxious beetles,—and space itself swarms with thick-strewn worlds,—flaming comets,—blazing nebulae,—among which our earth is but a gnat’s wing in a huge flame! Horrible!—horrible!” And he spoke with a kind of vehement fury. “Let us not think of it! Why should we insist on Truth? Let us have lies!—dear, sweet lies and fond delusions! Let us believe that men are all honest, and women all loving!—that there are virgins and saints and angels, as well as bishops and curates, looking after us in this wild world of terror,—oh, yes!—let us believe!—better the Pope’s little private snuggery of a Heaven, than the crushing truth which says ‘Our God is a consuming fire’! Knowledge deepens sorrow,—truth kills!—we must—we must have a little love, and a few lies to lean upon!”
His voice faltered,—and a sudden ashy paleness overspread his features,—his head fell back helplessly, and he seemed transfixed and insensible. Leroy and one or two of the others rose in alarm, thinking he had swooned, but Sergius Thord warned them back by a sign. The little Pequita, slipping from the arms of Lotys, went softly up to him.
“Paul! Dear Paul!” she said in her soft childish tones.
Zouche stirred, and stretching out one hand, groped with it blindly in the air. Pequita took it, warming it between her own little palms.
“Paul!” she said; “Do wake up! You have been asleep such a long time!”