She woke to find the beauty of the Mediterranean on her left, its exquisite coast-line soft with the flush of evening. Leaning back in hopeless weariness, she wondered how, had she come face to face with her Maker at that moment, she would have justified her existence. For a short while before she had asked herself, in all gravity, why she should give up all that life held dear for the sake of what might be after all, the beautiful dream of a young Nazarene, who died for the sake of His philosophy, as many others did before his time?
Yes, love had been her betrayer, the seducer of her soul. In the old legends the gift of love was always made by the good godmother. Treasure as it was thought to be, it had sharp facets which wounded the heart of her who pressed it to her bosom.
Looking at life now with that sense of curious detachment which comes to some of us when we stand on the brink of a moral precipice, it seemed to her that God had given His Great Gift of Love for this, and this alone--to show by the mutability of earthly things--even by the very highest passion which human love can attain--the necessity of leaving all for eternity, of tearing every human chord and tie to shreds, that from the broken strands we might weave a tiny ladder upon which wearily to climb into God's Kingdom.
One compensation had been given her. She had helped the man she loved. She had made him forget the bitter memories of his childhood; she had rejoiced at his success, and mourned with him in pain; she had reinstated him in the eyes of the world he loved, and made it possible that he should leave behind an honoured name. Only one thing was wanting.... But suddenly a vision formed; her life was full of visions now--she could not tell reality from dreams. She saw the open door of a little church on the hillside, far away in a distant land, but full of the presence of God. She saw the light of faith issue from it in a visible stream, pouring like a mountain torrent down the hillside, giving life to flowers which sprung up on the way. Up the steep hill a traveller came; he moved faintly and wearily, the light had gone from his eyes; she recognized him. Slowly Farquharson came to the door, there to stand blinded in the transfiguring light shed from the jewelled monstrance high upon its throne. And a man came forward, a man with outstretched hands, whose look was very welcoming--Cummings. She heard his voice ring out with a great gladness: "This is what she wished; it was for this that she laid down her life...."