Laurie was aware of a rising half-excited interest far beyond the power of the words he heard.
Yet the manner of these too was striking. It was not the sham mysticism he had expected. There was a certain reverence in them, an admitting of mysteries, that seemed hard to reconcile with the ideas he had formed of the dogmatism of these folk.
“Now begin again,” continued the quiet, virile voice.
“You believe, as a Christian, in the immortality of the soul, in the survival of personality after death. Thank God for that! All do not, in these days. Then I need not labor at that.
“Now, Mr. Baxter, imagine to yourself some soul that you have loved passionately, who has crossed over to the other side.” (Laurie drew a long, noiseless breath, steadying himself with clenched hands.) “She has come to the unimaginable glories, according to her measure; she is at an end of doubts and fears and suspicions. She knows because she sees. … But do you think that she is absorbed in these things? You know nothing of human love, Mr. Baxter” (the voice trembled with genuine emotion) … “if you can think that! … If you can think that her thought turns only to herself and her joys. Why, her life has been lived in your love by our hypothesis—you were at her bedside when she died, perhaps; and she clung to you as to God Himself, when the shadow deepened. Do you think that her first thought, or at least her second, will not be of you? … In all that she sees, she will desire you to see it also. She will strive, crave, hunger for you—not that she may possess you, but that you may be one with her in her own possession; she will send out vibration after vibration of sympathy and longing; and you, on this side, will be tuned to her as none other can be—you, on this side, will be empty for her love, for the sight and sound of her. … Is death then so strong?—stronger than love? Can a Christian believe that?”