"There is a great primeval thing which sometimes--not often, only
sometimes--occurs to two people," he went on. "When it leaps into being,
it is well if it is not thwarted, or done to death. It has happened to
my girl and Mount Dunstan. If they had been two young tinkers by the
roadside, they would have come together, and defied their beggary. As
it is, I recognise, as I sit here, that the outcome of what is to be may
reach far, and open up broad new ways."
"Yes," said the vicar. "She will live here and fill a strong man's life
with wonderful human happiness--her splendid children will be born here,
and among them will be those who lead the van and make history."
. . . . .
For some time Nigel Anstruthers lay in his room at Stornham Court,
surrounded by all of aid and luxury that wealth and exalted medical
science could gather about him. Sometimes he lay a livid unconscious
mask, sometimes his nurses and doctors knew that in his hollow eyes
there was the light of a raging half reason, and they saw that he
struggled to utter coherent sounds which they might comprehend. This he
never accomplished, and one day, in the midst of such an effort, he was
stricken dumb again, and soon afterwards sank into stillness and died.
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