She seemed to repeat
impressively: "Aubrey is not a good man, Ronnie. He is not a man you
should trust."
"Well?" asked Aubrey, at last. "Do you recognise the truth?"
Then, with an effort, Ronnie answered as he believed Helen would have
answered; and her face beside him seemed to smile approval.
"It sounds a plausible theory," he said slowly; "it may possibly be a
truth. But it is not a truth required by us now. Our obvious duty in the
present is to live this life out to its fullest and best, regarding it
as a time of preparation for the next."
Aubrey's thin lips framed the word "Rubbish!" but, checking it
unuttered, substituted: "Quite right. This existence _is_ a preparation
for the next; just as that which preceded was a preparation for this."
Then Ronnie ceased to express Helen, and gave vent to an idea of his
own.
"It would make a jolly old muddle of all our relationships," he said.
"Not at all," replied Aubrey. "It merely readjusts them, compensating
for disappointments in the present, by granting us the assurance of past
possessions, and the expectation of future enjoyment. In the life which
preceded this, Helen was probably _my_ wife, while _you_ were a
beautiful old person in diamond shoe-buckles, knee-breeches, and old
lace, who played the 'cello at our wedding."
"Confound you!" cried Ronnie, in sudden fury, springing up and swinging
the 'cello above his head, as if about to bring it down, with a crashing
blow, upon Aubrey.
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