Presently, when the service was about half way through, a change came over him. His face relaxed: the lines curved just a little laterally, the austerity vanished, his eyes brightened. He took off his gloves furtively and opened his coat. He was Edmund Gray. In that capacity he afterwards drank to the bride and wished her happiness. And he walked all the way from Pembridge Square to South Square, Gray's Inn.
I see in the future an old man growing feeble: he leans upon the arm of a girl whom he calls his Scholar, his disciple, and his child. His face is serene: he is perfectly happy: the Advent of that Kingdom whose glories he preaches is very nigh at hand. He lives in the house of his disciple: he has forgotten the very existence of his lawyer: he goes no more to Lincoln's Inn: always he is lying, night and day, before that miracle of carven work in Ivory. There he watches—it is his Vision—the long procession of those who work and sing at their work and are happy, work they ever so hard, because they work each for all and all for each. And there is no more sorrow or crying and no more pain. What hath the Gate of Horn—through which is allowed nothing but what is true—bitterly true—absolutely true—nakedly, coldly, shiveringly true—to show in comparison with this? A crowd trampling upon each other: men who enslave and rob each other: men and women and children lying in misery—men and women and children starving.—Let us fly, my brothers—let us swiftly fly—let us hasten—to the Gate of Ivory.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS
ON
THE IVORY GATE.
By WALTER BESANT.
'The novel shows us throughout that Mr. Besant is one of those fortunates who find fresh material.... Mr. Besant is a popular novelist, but he shows here an artist's appreciation of whimsical contrast, and an artist's skill in the delineation of character.... We are inclined to think "The Ivory Gate" worthy of the past reputation of Mr. Besant, and indicative of future development.'—Speaker.
'It would be impossible to discuss at length the many and great merits of "The Ivory Gate" without telling the story, and it is certainly a story to be read, not to be told.... Our interest in the story never flags for a moment. Neither in the "Golden Butterfly," nor "The Chaplain of the Fleet," are there any characters to equal the city knight, Sir Samuel Dering, and his wife Hilda, or the old clerk Checkley.'—Saturday Review.