The gates of death open.  You pass them.  They close behind you.  And what then?—­The whole hierarchy of heaven, the whole company of your forerunners thither—­beloved and honoured on earth—­may be gathered to hail the homing soul within those amazing portals; or it may drop, as a stone into a well, down the blank nothingness of the abyss.—­Of all gambles invented by God, man or devil—­so he told himself—­this daily, hourly gamble of individual dissolution is the biggest.  Man’s heart refuses the horror of extinction, while his intellect holds the question in suspense.  We hope.  We believe.  From of old fair promises have been made us; and, granted the gift of faith, hope and belief neighbour upon assurance.  But certainty is denied.  No mortal, still clothed in flesh, has known, nor—­the accumulated science of the ages notwithstanding—­does know, actually and exactly, that which awaits it.

Thus, anyhow, in the still, tender brightness of the autumn morning, while Nature and men alike pursued their normal activities and occupations, did this singular matter appear to Charles Verity—­he, himself, arbitrarily cut off from all such activities and occupations in the very moment of high fruition.  Had death been a less eminent affair, or less imminent, the sarcasm of his position might have seemed gross to the point of insult.  But, the longer he envisaged it, the more did the enduring enigma and its accompanying uncertainty allure.  Not as victim, but rather as conqueror of the final terror, did he begin to regard himself.

Meanwhile, though reason continued to hold the balance even between things positively known and things imagined only and hoped for, the god-ward impulse strengthened in him.  Not by conscious or convincing argument from within, but by all-powerful compulsion from without, was his thought borne onward and upward to increasing confidence.  So that he asked himself—­as so many another, still unwearied, still enamoured of attainment, has asked in like case—­whether impending divorce of soul and body may not confer freedom of a wider range and nobler quality, powers more varied and august than the mind, circumscribed by conditions of time and sense, has yet conception of?

To him such development seemed possible—­certainly.  Probable?—­Ah, well, perhaps—­perhaps.  Which brought him back to his former contention, that its inherent loneliness constitutes the bitterest sting of death.  Smiling, he quoted the ancient, divinely tender saying:  “There is a child in each one of us which cries at the dark.”

While, in swift reaction, he yearned towards battle where amid the fierce and bloody glory of the fight, souls of heroes troop forth together, shouting, into everlasting day or—­sceptical reason shaking a sadly sage head once again—­into everlasting night.

He stretched out his hand instinctively for the bell on the little table at his elbow.  Hordle answered his summons, grey of countenance from alarm, anxiety, and broken rest.