The flames were gathering thick at present, for Stransom had
entered that dark defile of our earthly descent in which some one
dies every day. It was only yesterday that Kate Creston had
flashed out her white fire; yet already there were younger stars
ablaze on the tips of the tapers. Various persons in whom his
interest had not been intense drew closer to him by entering this
company. He went over it, head by head, till he felt like the
shepherd of a huddled flock, with all a shepherd's vision of
differences imperceptible. He knew his candles apart, up to the
colour of the flame, and would still have known them had their
positions all been changed. To other imaginations they might stand
for other things--that they should stand for something to be hushed
before was all he desired; but he was intensely conscious of the
personal note of each and of the distinguishable way it contributed
to the concert. There were hours at which he almost caught himself
wishing that certain of his friends would now die, that he might
establish with them in this manner a connexion more charming than,
as it happened, it was possible to enjoy with them in life. In
regard to those from whom one was separated by the long curves of
the globe such a connexion could only be an improvement: it
brought them instantly within reach. Of course there were gaps in
the constellation, for Stransom knew he could only pretend to act
for his own, and it wasn't every figure passing before his eyes
into the great obscure that was entitled to a memorial. There was
a strange sanctification in death, but some characters were more
sanctified by being forgotten than by being remembered. The
greatest blank in the shining page was the memory of Acton Hague,
of which he inveterately tried to rid himself. For Acton Hague no
flame could ever rise on any altar of his.