an egotism, and
gloriously take up the nobler charge of labouring and living for
others? I suppose, Lucy Snowe, the orb of your life is not to be so
rounded: for you, the crescent-phase must suffice. Very good. I see a
huge mass of my fellow-creatures in no better circumstances. I see that
a great many men, and more women, hold their span of life on conditions
of denial and privation. I find no reason why I should be of the few
favoured. I believe in some blending of hope and sunshine sweetening
the worst lots. I believe that this life is not all; neither the
beginning nor the end. I believe while I tremble; I trust while I weep."

So this subject is done with. It is right to look our life-accounts
bravely in the face now and then, and settle them honestly. And he is a
poor self-swindler who lies to himself while he reckons the items, and
sets down under the head--happiness that which is misery. Call
anguish--anguish, and despair--despair; write both down in strong
characters with a resolute pen: you will the better pay your debt to
Doom. Falsify: insert "privilege" where you should have written "pain;"
and see if your mighty creditor will allow the fraud to pass, or accept
the coin with which you would cheat him. Offer to the strongest--if the
darkest angel of God's host--water, when he has asked blood--will he
take it? Not a whole pale sea for one red drop. I settled another
account.

Pausing before Methusaleh--the giant and patriarch of the garden--and
leaning my brow against his knotty trunk, my foot rested on the stone
sealing the small sepulchre at his root; and I recalled the passage of
feeling therein buried; I recalled Dr. John; my warm affection for him;
my faith in his excellence; my delight in his grace. What was become of
that curious one-sided friendship which was half marble and half life;
only on one hand truth, and on the other perhaps a jest?

Was this feeling dead? I do not know, but it was buried. Sometimes I
thought the tomb unquiet, and dreamed strangely of disturbed earth, and
of hair, still golden, and living, obtruded through coffin-chinks.

Had I been too hasty? I used to ask myself; and this question would
occur with a cruel sharpness after some brief chance interview with Dr.
John. He had still such kind looks, such a warm hand; his voice still
kept so pleasant a tone for my name; I never liked "Lucy" so well as
when he uttered it. But I learned in time that this benignity, this
cordialit