So as the drear day of the dying winter drew to a close, as the ashes powdered on the hearth and the face of Renault became obscure in the twilight, the dim outlines of a great meaning rose before her, reconciling all…. The Vision that abides within apart from the teasing phantasmagoria of sense, the Vision that comes, now dim, now vivid, as the flash of white light in the storm, the Vision towards which mankind blindly reaches, the Vision by which he may learn to live and endure all!
And this Vision was all that really mattered,—to see it, to follow where it pointed the way!
… "The waste in life, the wrong steps, the futile years!" she murmured.
"Rather the cost, the infinite cost of human souls—and their infinite value once born," Renault corrected. "Do not distress yourself about what to do, the claims of this or that. The thing to do will always be clear, once you trust yourself, seek wholly the Vision. And as for beauty and satisfaction and significance,—it is infinite in every moment of every life—when the eyes are once open to see!"
There was the sound of footsteps outside, and Isabelle moved to the door.
"So," Renault concluded, putting his hands on her shoulders, "it is not the End but the Beginning. And always so,—a mysterious journey, this life, with countless beginnings…. We go out into the night. But the light comes—when we forget to see ourselves."
The wind raged in the trees outside, sweeping across the earth, tearing the forest, cleansing and breaking its repose, preparing for the renewal to come. Like a mighty voice it shouted to man; like the whirlwind it shook his earth…. For the first time since Vickers lay dead in the dawn of the June morning Isabelle could bear to look at the past,—to accept it calmly as part of herself out of which she had lived, in recognition of that beginning within.
CHAPTER LXV
"They seem to be in such a pother, out in the world," Isabelle remarked to Margaret, as she turned over the leaves of her husband's letter. "The President is calling names, and a lot of good people are calling names back. And neither side seems to like being called names. John doesn't like it, and he calls names. And they sulk and won't play marbles. It all sounds like childish squabbling."
Margaret, who was unusually absent-minded this evening, sighed:—