"I should not," he said to himself; "I should not—it was wrong. The dying are tyrannous."
He even began a word of sweet apology. But she shook her head.
"Don't!" she said, struggling with herself; "don't say that! It would do me good to speak—to you—"
An exquisite smile dawned on Hallin's face.
"Then!"—he said—"confess!"
* * * * *
A few minutes later they were still sitting together. She strongly wished to go; but he would not yet allow it. His face was full of a mystical joy—a living faith, which must somehow communicate itself in one last sacramental effort.
"How strange that you—and I—and he—should have been so mixed together in this queer life. Now I seem to regret nothing—I hope everything. One more little testimony let me bear!—the last. We disappear one by one—into the dark—but each may throw his comrades—a token—before he goes. You have been in much trouble of mind and spirit—I have seen it. Take my poor witness. There is one clue, one only—goodness—the surrendered will. Everything is there—all faith—all religion—all hope for rich or poor.—Whether we feel our way through consciously to the Will—that asks our will—matters little. Aldous and I have differed much on this—in words—never at heart! I could use words, symbols he cannot—and they have given me peace. But half my best life I owe to him."
At this he made a long pause—but, still, through that weak grasp, refusing to let her go—till all was said. Day was almost gone; the stars had come out over the purple dusk of the park.
"That Will—we reach—through duty and pain," he whispered at last, so faintly she could hardly hear him, "is the root, the source. It leads us in living—it—carries us in death. But our weakness and vagueness—want help—want the human life and voice—to lean on—to drink from. We Christians—are orphans—without Christ! There again—what does it matter what we think—about him—if only we think—of him. In one such life are all mysteries, and all knowledge—and our fathers have chosen for us—"