Thus it had come to Bellair—the vivid contrast of cavern and high noon. It was all in the two deaths, the enactment of the second, as yet unfinished.... New York and all life moved with countless tricks and lures to make a man lose his way, lose his chance to rise and die with grace like this. New York was like one vast Lot & Company.
Fleury’s head was upon the knees of the woman. Bellair had not seen her take him. For this last hour, the three were as one. There was a cry from Bellair that the woman heard all her days:
“Oh, Fleury, do you have to go?”
So far as time measures, the silence was long before Fleury answered, and then only to say:
“Take my hand, Bellair.”
He came up from a deep dream to obey. It had been as if he were out under the stars again,—Fleury talking from the shadows near the woman—the rest, vastness and starlight.
“It’s the too-great light, Bellair. It came when I could stand it. As soon as I could love you enough I could pray. It is the loss of the sense of self that made it wonderful. The Light and His voice came from ahead.
“‘I am here for those who look ahead, and for those who turn back two thousand years, I am there. Those who love one another find me swiftly.’... This is dying of happiness.”
In the silence, the low lights of the cabin came back for their eyes. They heard him say at the last:
“... I love you both and respect and thank you both. We found our happiness in the open boat.... And Bellair, when you go back to New York, do not stay too long. It is right for you to go, but do not stay too long.... And dear Bellair—always follow the Gleam.”