The little clergyman was as simple and honest as the day. My uncle was
simply generalising about his class.
But it may have been these talks that set loose some long dormant string
of ideas in my uncle's brain, ideas the things of this world had long
suppressed and hidden altogether. Near the end he suddenly became
clearminded and lucid, albeit very weak, and his voice was little, but
clear.
"George," he said.
"I'm here," I said, "close beside you."
"George. You have always been responsible for the science. George. You
know better than I do. Is--Is it proved?"
"What proved?"
"Either way?"
"I don't understand."
"Death ends all. After so much--Such splendid beginnin's. Somewhere.
Something."
I stared at him amazed. His sunken eyes were very grave.
"What do you expect?" I said in wonder.
He would not answer. "Aspirations," he whispered. He fell into a broken
monologue, regardless of me. "Trailing clouds of glory," he said, and
"first-rate poet, first-rate....George was always hard. Always."
For a long time there was silence.
Pages:
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638