Henley is nowhere now except that, red-faced and jolly like an October sunset, he leans over a gate at Worthing after a long day of picnicking at Chanctonbury Ring, or sits at his Woking table praising and quoting “The Admiral Bashville,” or blue-shirted and wearing that hat that Nicholson has painted, is thrust and lugged, laughing and talking aside in his bath-chair, along the Worthing esplanade...

And Bob Stevenson walks for ever about a garden in Chiswick, talking in the dusk.

4.5.  The consolation of failure.

That parable of the talents I have made such free use of in this book has one significant defect.  It gives but two cases, and three are possible.  There was first the man who buried his talent, and of his condemnation we are assured.  But those others all took their talents and used them courageously and came back with gain.  Was that gain inevitable?  Does courage always ensure us victory? because if that is so we can all be heroes and valour is the better part of discretion.  Alas! the faith in such magic dies.  What of the possible case of the man who took his two or three talents and invested them as best he could and was deceived or heedless and lost them, interest and principal together?

There is something harder to face than death, and that is the realization of failure and misdirected effort and wrong-doing.  Faith is no Open Sesame to right-doing, much less is it the secret of success.  The service of God on earth is no processional triumph.  What if one does wrong so extremely as to condemn one’s life, to make oneself part of the refuse and not of the building?  Or what if one is misjudged, or it may be too pitilessly judged, and one’s co-operation despised and the help one brought becomes a source of weakness?  Or suppose that the fine scheme one made lies shattered or wrecked by one’s own act, or through some hidden blemish one’s offering is rejected and flung back and one is thrust out?

So in the end it may be you or I will find we have been anvil and not hammer in the Purpose of God.

Then indeed will come the time for Faith, for the last word of Faith, to say still steadfastly, disgraced or dying, defeated or discredited, that all is well:—­

“This and not that was my appointed work, and this I had to be.”

4.6.  The last confession.

So these broken confessions and statements of mood and attitude come to an end.

But at this end, since I have, I perceive, run a little into a pietistic strain, I must repeat again how provisional and personal I know all these things to be.  I began by disavowing ultimates.  My beliefs, my dogmas, my rules, they are made for my campaigning needs, like the knapsack and water-bottle of a Cockney soldier invading some stupendous mountain gorge.  About him are fastnesses and splendours, torrents and cataracts, glaciers and untrodden snows.  He comes