two walking together on a long road may separate, and one walk till
almost out of sight of the other and then slowly return, but the two
endure no sense of parting, feeling together all the time, so Isabel
and Theophil felt about this fortnight.

But did they speak no word, look no look all these hours, of all their
hearts cried out to say? Was Jenny there all the time? Nearly. Still
there was a moment granted them, which, added to the two moments
previously recorded, made a total perhaps of four minutes, which life so
far generously allowed them to be alone together in. Yet such is love's
miraculous velocity that it had said all it needed to say, given all, in
those four minutes. All it had to say to-night was just two Christian
names, said so solemnly, so tenderly, so honestly. Just "Isabel," just
"Theophil," and a long quiet clasp of hand and eyes. It was enough. It
is written.

CHAPTER XVIII

ONE DAY OUT OF ALL THE YEARS

It was not enough!

If you would safely renounce a joy, you had best enjoy something of it
first. Renunciation must have something to live on. You can "take up the
whole of love and utter it," and _then_ "say adieu for ever," but
not before.

I have asked mercy for Jenny, though it was perhaps hardly necessary,
for the world always pities Jenny. Now I would ask it for Isabel and
Theophil, who are thus quietly to sacrifice the greatest thing in their
lives, the one reality for which they have come into existence, for
Jenny's sake. Great is their love for each other, but even greater and
stranger must be their involuntary love for an invisible goodness, an
ideal of ineffable pity. They are going to die that Jenny may live.

Strange, this gentle heroism of human creatures one for the other. Would
it be unfair to ask that each should support the anguish of his own
destiny, and that when Jenny's turn has come she should take her
lightning? Hers, had she known it, was the cup of anguish here; for
Theophil and Isabel had been decreed the cup of joy. But will they drink
it? No, they will change the cups; perhaps the bitter cup will grow
sweet near the dregs, being drunk together.

Yet this love of theirs, this perilous chance for Jenny, was none of
their making. Their joy had been given to them by unseen hands. It is
fairly theirs. Next time, perhaps, it will be their turn to suffer. It
is Jenny's now...

But no! the good heart of humanity will defeat the cruel ruling of the
gods. Let