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own to the odd words they had repeated to him. The nameless lady

was the clandestine connexion - a fact nothing could have made
clearer than his indecent haste to rejoin her. He sank on his

knees before his altar while his head fell over on his hands. His
weakness, his life's wearinessovertook him. It seemed to him he

had come for the great surrender. At first he asked himself how he
should get away; then, with the failing belief in the power, the

very desire to move gradually left him. He had come, as he always
came, to lose himself; the fields of light were still there to

stray in; only this time, in straying, he would never come back.
He had given himself to his Dead, and it was good: this time his

Dead would keep him. He couldn't rise from his knees; he believed
he should never rise again; all he could do was to lift his face

and fix his eyes on his lights. They looked unusually, strangely
splendid, but the one that always drew him most had an

unprecedented lustre. It was the central voice of the choir, the
glowing heart of the brightness, and on this occasion it seemed to

expand, to spread great wings of flame. The whole altar flared -
dazzling and blinding; but the source of the vast radiance burned

clearer than the rest, gathering itself into form, and the form was
human beauty and human charity, was the far-off face of Mary

Antrim. She smiled at him from the glory of heaven - she brought
the glory down with her to take him. He bowed his head in

submission and at the same moment another wave rolled over him.
Was it the quickening of joy to pain? In the midst of his joy at

any rate he felt his buried face grow hot as with some communicated
knowledge that had the force of a reproach. It suddenly made him

contrast that very rapture with the bliss he had refused to
another. This breath of the passionimmortal was all that other

had asked; the descent of Mary Antrim opened his spirit with a
great compunctious throb for the descent of Acton Hague. It was as

if Stransom had read what her eyes said to him.
After a moment he looked round in a despair that made him feel as

if the source of life were ebbing. The church had been empty - he
was alone; but he wanted to have something done, to make a last

appeal. This idea gave him strength for an effort; he rose to his
feet with a movement that made him turn, supporting himself by the

back of a bench. Behind him was a prostrate figure, a figure he
had seen before; a woman in deep mourning, bowed in grief or in

prayer. He had seen her in other days - the first time of his
entrance there, and he now slightly wavered, looking at her again

till she seemed aware he had noticed her. She raised her head and
met his eyes: the partner of his long worship had come back. She

looked across at him an instant with a face wondering and scared;
he saw he had made her afraid. Then quickly rising she came

straight to him with both hands out.
"Then you COULD come? God sent you!" he murmured with a happy

smile.
"You're very ill - you shouldn't be here," she urged in anxious

reply.
"God sent me too, I think. I was ill when I came, but the sight of

you does wonders." He held her hands, which steadied and quickened
him. "I've something to tell you."

"Don't tell me!" she tenderly pleaded; "let me tell you. This
afternoon, by a miracle, the sweetest of miracles, the sense of our

difference left me. I was out - I was near, thinking, wandering
alone, when, on the spot, something changed in my heart. It's my

confession - there it is. To come back, to come back on the
instant - the idea gave me wings. It was as if I suddenly saw

something - as if it all became possible. I could come for what
you yourself came for: that was enough. So here I am. It's not

for my own - that's over. But I'm here for THEM." And breathless,
infinitely relieved by her low precipitateexplanation, she looked

with eyes that reflected all its splendour at the magnificence of
their altar.

"They're here for you," Stransom said, "they're present to-night as
they've never been. They speak for you - don't you see? - in a

passion of light; they sing out like a choir of angels. Don't you
hear what they say? - they offer the very thing you asked of me."

"Don't talk of it - don't think of it; forget it!" She spoke in
hushed supplication, and while the alarm deepened in her eyes she

disengaged one of her hands and passed an arm round him to support
him better, to help him to sink into a seat.

He let himself go, resting on her; he dropped upon the bench and
she fell on her knees beside him, his own arm round her shoulder.

So he remained an instant, staring up at his shrine. "They say
there's a gap in the array - they say it's not full, complete.

Just one more," he went on, softly - "isn't that what you wanted?
Yes, one more, one more."

"Ah no more - no more!" she wailed, as with a quick new horror of
it, under her breath.

"Yes, one more," he repeated, simply; "just one!" And with this
his head dropped on her shoulder; she felt that in his weakness he

had fainted. But alone with him in the dusky church a great dread
was on her of what might still happen, for his face had the

whiteness of death.
End


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