But there was no darkening of expression. He sat quietly smiling.
"Do you suppose anybody who could look beyond the moment would dream of calling it failure?" said Aldous, with difficulty.
Hallin shook his head gently, and was silent for a little time, gathering strength and breath again.
"I ought to suffer"—he said, presently. "Last week I dreaded my own feeling if I should fail or break down—more than the failure itself. But since yesterday—last night—I have no more regrets. I see that my power is gone—that if I were to live I could no longer carry on the battle—or my old life. I am out of touch. Those whom I love and would serve, put me aside. Those who invite me, I do not care to join. So I drop—into the gulf—and the pageant rushes on. But the curious thing is now—I have no suffering. And as to the future—do you remember Jowett in the Introduction to the Phaedo—"
He feebly pointed to a book beside him, which Aldous took up. Hallin guided him and he read—
"Most persons when the last hour comes are resigned to the order of nature and the will of God. They are not thinking of Dante's 'Inferno' or 'Paradiso,' or of the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' Heaven and Hell are not realities to them, but words or ideas—the outward symbols of some great mystery, they hardly know what."
"It is so with me," said Hallin, smiling, as, at his gesture, Aldous laid the book aside; "yet not quite. To my mind, that mystery indeed is all unknown and dark—but to the heart it seems unveiled—with the heart, I see."
A little later Aldous was startled to hear him say, very clearly and quickly:
"Do you remember that this is the fifth of October?"
Aldous drew his chair closer, that he might not raise his voice.