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The Altar of the Dead
by Henry James
CHAPTER I.
HE had a mortal dislikepoor Stransomto lean anniversariesand
loved them still less when they made a pretence of a figure.
Celebrations and suppressions were equally painful to himand but
one of the former found a place in his life. He had kept each year
in his own fashion the date of Mary Antrim's death. It would be
more to the point perhaps to say that this occasion kept HIM: it
kept him at least effectually from doing anything else. It took
hold of him again and again with a hand of which time had softened
but never loosened the touch. He waked to his feast of memory as
consciously as he would have waked to his marriage-morn. Marriage
had had of old but too little to say to the matter: for the girl
who was to have been his bride there had been no bridal embrace.
She had died of a malignant fever after the wedding-day had been
fixedand he had lost before fairly tasting it an affection that
promised to fill his life to the brim.
Of that benedictionhoweverit would have been false to say this
life could really be emptied: it was still ruled by a pale ghost
still ordered by a sovereign presence. He had not been a man of
numerous passionsand even in all these years no sense had grown
stronger with him than the sense of being bereft. He had needed no
priest and no altar to make him for ever widowed. He had done many
things in the world - he had done almost all but one: he had
nevernever forgotten. He had tried to put into his existence
whatever else might take up room in itbut had failed to make it
more than a house of which the mistress was eternally absent. She
was most absent of all on the recurrent December day that his
tenacity set apart. He had no arranged observance of itbut his
nerves made it all their own. They drove him forth without mercy
and the goal of his pilgrimage was far. She had been buried in a
London suburba part then of Nature's breastbut which he had
seen lose one after another every feature of freshness. It was in
truth during the moments he stood there that his eyes beheld the
place least. They looked at another imagethey opened to another
light. Was it a credible future? Was it an incredible past?
Whatever the answer it was an immense escape from the actual.
It's true that if there weren't other dates than this there were
other memories; and by the time George Stransom was fifty-five such
memories had greatly multiplied. There were other ghosts in his
life than the ghost of Mary Antrim. He had perhaps not had more
losses than most menbut he had counted his losses more; he hadn't
seen death more closelybut had in a manner felt it more deeply.
He had formed little by little the habit of numbering his Dead: it
had come to him early in life that there was something one had to
do for them. They were there in their simplified intensified
essencetheir conscious absence and expressive patienceas
personally there as if they had only been stricken dumb. When all
sense of them failedall sound of them ceasedit was as if their
purgatory were really still on earth: they asked so little that
they gotpoor thingseven lessand died againdied every day
of the hard usage of life. They had no organised serviceno
reserved placeno honourno shelterno safety. Even ungenerous
people provided for the livingbut even those who were called most
generous did nothing for the others. So on George Stransom's part
had grown up with the years a resolve that he at least would do
somethingdo itthat isfor his own - would perform the great
charity without reproach. Every man HAD his ownand every man
hadto meet this charitythe ample resources of the soul.
It was doubtless the voice of Mary Antrim that spoke for them best;
as the years at any rate went by he found himself in regular
communion with these postponed pensionersthose whom indeed he
always called in his thoughts the Others. He spared them the
momentshe organised the charity. Quite how it had risen he
probably never could have told youbut what came to pass was that
an altarsuch as was after all within everybody's compasslighted
with perpetual candles and dedicated to these secret ritesreared
itself in his spiritual spaces. He had wondered of oldin some
embarrassmentwhether he had a religion; being very sureand not
a little contentthat he hadn't at all events the religion some of
the people he had known wanted him to have. Gradually this
question was straightened out for him: it became clear to him that
the religion instilled by his earliest consciousness had been
simply the religion of the Dead. It suited his inclinationit
satisfied his spiritit gave employment to his piety. It answered
his love of great officesof a solemn and splendid ritual; for no
shrine could be more bedecked and no ceremonial more stately than
those to which his worship was attached. He had no imagination
about these things but that they were accessible to any one who
should feel the need of them. The poorest could build such temples
of the spirit - could make them blaze with candles and smoke with
incensemake them flush with pictures and flowers. The costin
the common phraseof keeping them up fell wholly on the generous
heart.
CHAPTER II.
HE had this yearon the eve of his anniversaryas happenedan
emotion not unconnected with that range of feeling. Walking home
at the close of a busy day he was arrested in the London street by
the particular effect of a shop-front that lighted the dull brown
air with its mercenary grin and before which several persons were
gathered. It was the window of a jeweller whose diamonds and
sapphires seemed to laughin flashes like high notes of sound
with the mere joy of knowing how much more they were "worth" than
most of the dingy pedestrians staring at them from the other side
of the pane. Stransom lingered long enough to suspendin a
visiona string of pearls about the white neck of Mary Antrimand
then was kept an instant longer by the sound of a voice he knew.
Next him was a mumbling old womanand beyond the old woman a
gentleman with a lady on his arm. It was from himfrom Paul
Crestonthe voice had proceeded: he was talking with the lady of
some precious object in the window. Stransom had no sooner
recognised him than the old woman turned away; but just with this
growth of opportunity came a felt strangeness that stayed him in
the very act of laying his hand on his friend's arm. It lasted but
the instantonly that space sufficed for the flash of a wild
question. Was NOT Mrs. Creston dead? - the ambiguity met him there
in the short drop of her husband's voicethe drop conjugalif it
ever wasand in the way the two figures leaned to each other.
Crestonmaking a step to look at something elsecame nearer
glanced at himstarted and exclaimed - behaviour the effect of
which was at first only to leave Stransom staringstaring back
across the months at the different facethe wholly other facethe
poor man had shown him lastthe blurred ravaged mask bent over the
open grave by which they had stood together. That son of
affliction wasn't in mourning now; he detached his arm from his
companion's to grasp the hand of the older friend. He coloured as
well as smiled in the strong light of the shop when Stransom raised
a tentative hat to the lady. Stransom had just time to see she was
pretty before he found himself gaping at a fact more portentous.
"My dear fellowlet me make you acquainted with my wife."
Creston had blushed and stammered over itbut in half a minuteat
the rate we live in polite societyit had practically becomefor
our friendthe mere memory of a shock. They stood there and
laughed and talked; Stransom had instantly whisked the shock out of
the wayto keep it for private consumption. He felt himself
grimacehe heard himself exaggerate the properbut was conscious
of turning not a little faint. That new womanthat hired
performerMrs. Creston? Mrs. Creston had been more living for him
than any woman but one. This lady had a face that shone as
publicly as the jeweller's windowand in the happy candour with
which she wore her monstrous character was an effect of gross
immodesty. The character of Paul Creston's wife thus attributed to
her was monstrous for reasons Stransom could judge his friend to
know perfectly that he knew. The happy pair had just arrived from
Americaand Stransom hadn't needed to be told this to guess the
nationality of the lady. Somehow it deepened the foolish air that
her husband's confused cordiality was unable to conceal. Stransom
recalled that he had heard of poor Creston's havingwhile his
bereavement was still freshcrossed the sea for what people in
such predicaments call a little change. He had found the little
change indeedhe had brought the little change back; it was the
little change that stood there and thatdo what he wouldhe
couldn'twhile he showed those high front teeth of hislook other
than a conscious ass about. They were going into the shopMrs.
Creston saidand she begged Mr. Stransom to come with them and
help to decide. He thanked heropening his watch and pleading an
engagement for which he was already lateand they parted while she
shrieked into the fog"Mind now you come to see me right away!"
Creston had had the delicacy not to suggest thatand Stransom
hoped it hurt him somewhere to hear her scream it to all the
echoes.
He felt quite determinedas he walked awaynever in his life to
go near her. She was perhaps a human beingbut Creston oughtn't
to have shown her without precautionsoughtn't indeed to have
shown her at all. His precautions should have been those of a
forger or a murdererand the people at home would never have
mentioned extradition. This was a wife for foreign service or
purely external use; a decent consideration would have spared her
the injury of comparisons. Such was the first flush of George
Stransom's reaction; but as he sat alone that night - there were
particular hours he always passed alone - the harshness dropped
from it and left only the pity. HE could spend an evening with
Kate Crestonif the man to whom she had given everything couldn't.
He had known her twenty yearsand she was the only woman for whom
he might perhaps have been unfaithful. She was all cleverness and
sympathy and charm; her house had been the very easiest in all the
world and her friendship the very firmest. Without accidents he
had loved herwithout accidents every one had loved her: she had
made the passions about her as regular as the moon makes the tides.
She had been also of course far too good for her husbandbut he
never suspected itand in nothing had she been more admirable than
in the exquisite art with which she tried to keep every one else
(keeping Creston was no trouble) from finding it out. Here was a
man to whom she had devoted her life and for whom she had given it
up - dying to bring into the world a child of his bed; and she had
had only to submit to her fate to haveere the grass was green on
her graveno more existence for him than a domestic servant he had
replaced. The frivolitythe indecency of it made Stransom's eyes
fill; and he had that evening a sturdy sense that he alonein a
world without delicacyhad a right to hold up his head. While he
smokedafter dinnerhe had a book in his lapbut he had no eyes
for his page: his eyesin the swarming void of thingsseemed to
have caught Kate Creston'sand it was into their sad silences he
looked. It was to him her sentient spirit had turnedknowing it
to be of her he would think. He thought for a long time of how the
closed eyes of dead women could still live - how they could open
againin a quiet lamplit roomlong after they had looked their
last. They had looks that survived - had them as great poets had
quoted lines.
The newspaper lay by his chair - the thing that came in the
afternoon and the servants thought one wanted; without sense for
what was in it he had mechanically unfolded and then dropped it.
Before he went to bed he took it upand this timeat the top of a
paragraphhe was caught by five words that made him start. He
stood staringbefore the fireat the "Death of Sir Acton Hague
K.C.B." the man who ten years earlier had been the nearest of his
friends and whose deposition from this eminence had practically
left it without an occupant. He had seen him after their rupture
but hadn't now seen him for years. Standing there before the fire
he turned cold as he read what had befallen him. Promoted a short
time previous to the governorship of the Westward IslandsActon
Hague had diedin the bleak honour of this exileof an illness
consequent on the bite of a poisonous snake. His career was
compressed by the newspaper into a dozen linesthe perusal of
which excited on George Stransom's part no warmer feeling than one
of relief at the absence of any mention of their quarrelan
incident accidentally tainted at the timethanks to their joint
immersion in large affairswith a horrible publicity. Public
indeed was the wrong Stransom hadto his own sensesufferedthe
insult he had blankly taken from the only man with whom he had ever
been intimate; the friendalmost adoredof his University years
the subjectlaterof his passionate loyalty: so public that he
had never spoken of it to a human creatureso public that he had
completely overlooked it. It had made the difference for him that
friendship too was all overbut it had only made just that one.
The shock of interests had been privateintensely so; but the
action taken by Hague had been in the face of men. To-day it all
seemed to have occurred merely to the end that George Stransom
should think of him as "Hague" and measure exactly how much he
himself could resemble a stone. He went coldsuddenly and
horribly coldto bed.
CHAPTER III.
THE next dayin the afternoonin the great grey suburbhe knew
his long walk had tired him. In the dreadful cemetery alone he had
been on his feet an hour. Instinctivelycoming backthey had
taken him a devious courseand it was a desert in which no
circling cabman hovered over possible prey. He paused on a corner
and measured the dreariness; then he made out through the gathered
dusk that he was in one of those tracts of London which are less
gloomy by night than by daybecausein the former case of the
civil gift of light. By day there was nothingbut by night there
were lampsand George Stransom was in a mood that made lamps good
in themselves. It wasn't that they could show him anythingit was
only that they could burn clear. To his surprisehoweverafter a
whilethey did show him something: the arch of a high doorway
approached by a low terrace of stepsin the depth of which - it
formed a dim vestibule - the raising of a curtain at the moment he
passed gave him a glimpse of an avenue of gloom with a glow of
tapers at the end. He stopped and looked uprecognising the place
as a church. The thought quickly came to him that since he was
tired he might rest there; so that after a moment he had in turn
pushed up the leathern curtain and gone in. It was a temple of the
old persuasionand there had evidently been a function - perhaps a
service for the dead; the high altar was still a blaze of candles.
This was an exhibition he always likedand he dropped into a seat
with relief. More than it had ever yet come home to him it struck
him as good there should be churches.
This one was almost empty and the other altars were dim; a verger
shuffled aboutan old woman coughedbut it seemed to Stransom
there was hospitality in the thick sweet air. Was it only the
savour of the incense or was it something of larger intention? He
had at any rate quitted the great grey suburb and come nearer to
the warm centre. He presently ceased to feel intrusivegaining at
last even a sense of community with the only worshipper in his
neighbourhoodthe sombre presence of a womanin mourning
unrelievedwhose back was all he could see of her and who had sunk
deep into prayer at no great distance from him. He wished he could
sinklike herto the very bottombe as motionlessas rapt in
prostration. After a few moments he shifted his seat; it was
almost indelicate to be so aware of her. But Stransom subsequently
quite lost himselffloating away on the sea of light. If
occasions like this had been more frequent in his life he would
have had more present the great original typeset up in a myriad
templesof the unapproachable shrine he had erected in his mind.
That shrine had begun in vague likeness to church pompsbut the
echo had ended by growing more distinct than the sound. The sound
now rang outthe type blazed at him with all its fires and with a
mystery of radiance in which endless meanings could glow. The
thing became as he sat there his appropriate altar and each starry
candle an appropriate vow. He numbered themnamed themgrouped
them - it was the silent roll-call of his Dead. They made together
a brightness vast and intensea brightness in which the mere
chapel of his thoughts grew so dim that as it faded away he asked
himself if he shouldn't find his real comfort in some material act
some outward worship.
This idea took possession of him whileat a distancethe black-
robed lady continued prostrate; he was quietly thrilled with his
conceptionwhich at last brought him to his feet in the sudden
excitement of a plan. He wandered softly through the aisles
pausing in the different chapelsall save one applied to a special
devotion. It was in this clear recesslampless and unapplied
that he stood longest - the length of time it took him fully to
grasp the conception of gilding it with his bounty. He should
snatch it from no other rites and associate it with nothing
profane; he would simply take it as it should be given up to him
and make it a masterpiece of splendour and a mountain of fire.
Tended sacredly all the yearwith the sanctifying church round it
it would always be ready for his offices. There would be
difficultiesbut from the first they presented themselves only as
difficulties surmounted. Even for a person so little affiliated
the thing would be a matter of arrangement. He saw it all in
advanceand how bright in especial the place would become to him
in the intermissions of toil and the dusk of afternoons; how rich
in assurance at all timesbut especially in the indifferent world.
Before withdrawing he drew nearer again to the spot where he had
first sat downand in the movement he met the lady whom he had
seen praying and who was now on her way to the door. She passed
him quicklyand he had only a glimpse of her pale face and her
unconsciousalmost sightless eyes. For that instant she looked
faded and handsome.
This was the origin of the rites more publicyet certainly
esotericthat he at last found himself able to establish. It took
a long timeit took a yearand both the process and the result
would have been - for any who knew - a vivid picture of his good
faith. No one did knowin fact - no one but the bland
ecclesiastics whose acquaintance he had promptly soughtwhose
objections he had softly overriddenwhose curiosity and sympathy
he had artfully charmedwhose assent to his eccentric munificence
he had eventually wonand who had asked for concessions in
exchange for indulgences. Stransom had of course at an early stage
of his enquiry been referred to the Bishopand the Bishop had been
delightfully humanthe Bishop had been almost amused. Success was
within sightat any rate from the moment the attitude of those
whom it concerned became liberal in response to liberality. The
altar and the sacred shell that half encircled itconsecrated to
an ostensible and customary worshipwere to be splendidly
maintained; all that Stransom reserved to himself was the number of
his lights and the free enjoyment of his intention. When the
intention had taken complete effect the enjoyment became even
greater than he had ventured to hope. He liked to think of this
effect when far from itliked to convince himself of it yet again
when near. He was not often indeed so near as that a visit to it
hadn't perforce something of the patience of a pilgrimage; but the
time he gave to his devotion came to seem to him more a
contribution to his other interests than a betrayal of them. Even
a loaded life might be easier when one had added a new necessity to
it.
How much easier was probably never guessed by those who simply knew
there were hours when he disappeared and for many of whom there was
a vulgar reading of what they used to call his plunges. These
plunges were into depths quieter than the deep sea-cavesand the
habit had at the end of a year or two become the one it would have
cost him most to relinquish. Now they had reallyhis Dead
something that was indefensibly theirs; and he liked to think that
they might in cases be the Dead of othersas well as that the Dead
of others might be invoked there under the protection of what he
had done. Whoever bent a knee on the carpet he had laid down
appeared to him to act in the spirit of his intention. Each of his
lights had a name for himand from time to time a new light was
kindled. This was what he had fundamentally agreed forthat there
should always be room for them all. What those who passed or
lingered saw was simply the most resplendent of the altars called
suddenly into vivid usefulnesswith a quiet elderly manfor whom
it evidently had a fascinationoften seated there in a maze or a
doze; but half the satisfaction of the spot for this mysterious and
fitful worshipper was that he found the years of his life there
and the tiesthe affectionsthe strugglesthe submissionsthe
conquestsif there had been sucha record of that adventurous
journey in which the beginnings and the endings of human relations
are the lettered mile-stones. He had in general little taste for
the past as a part of his own history; at other times and in other
places it mostly seemed to him pitiful to consider and impossible
to repair; but on these occasions he accepted it with something of
that positive gladness with which one adjusts one's self to an ache
that begins to succumb to treatment. To the treatment of time the
malady of life begins at a given moment to succumb; and these were
doubtless the hours at which that truth most came home to him. The
day was written for him there on which he had first become
acquainted with deathand the successive phases of the
acquaintance were marked each with a flame.
The flames were gathering thick at presentfor 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 ithead by headtill he felt like the
shepherd of a huddled flockwith all a shepherd's vision of
differences imperceptible. He knew his candles apartup to the
colour of the flameand 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 thanas it happenedit 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 constellationfor Stransom knew he could
only pretend to act for his ownand 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 deathbut some
characters were more sanctified by being forgotten than by being
remembered. The greatest blank in the shining page was the memory
of Acton Hagueof which he inveterately tried to rid himself. For
Acton Hague no flame could ever rise on any altar of his.
CHAPTER IV.
EVERY yearthe day he walked back from the great graveyardhe
went to church as he had done the day his idea was born. It was on
this occasionas it happenedafter a year had passedthat he
began to observe his altar to be haunted by a worshipper at least
as frequent as himself. Others of the faithfuland in the rest of
the churchcame and wentappealing sometimeswhen they
disappearedto a vague or to a particular recognition; but this
unfailing presence was always to be observed when he arrived and
still in possession when he departed. He was surprisedthe first
timeat the promptitude with which it assumed an identity for him
- the identity of the lady whom two years beforeon his
anniversaryhe had seen so intensely bowedand of whose tragic
face he had had so flitting a vision. Given the time that had
passedhis recollection of her was fresh enough to make him
wonder. Of himself she had of course no impressionor rather had
had none at first: the time came when her manner of transacting
her business suggested her having gradually guessed his call to be
of the same order. She used his altar for her own purpose - he
could only hope that sad and solitary as she always struck himshe
used it for her own Dead. There were interruptionsinfidelities
all on his partcalls to other associations and duties; but as the
months went on he found her whenever he returnedand he ended by
taking pleasure in the thought that he had given her almost the
contentment he had given himself. They worshipped side by side so
often that there were moments when he wished he might be sureso
straight did their prospect stretch away of growing old together in
their rites. She was younger than hebut she looked as if her
Dead were at least as numerous as his candles. She had no colour
no soundno faultand another of the things about which he had
made up his mind was that she had no fortune. Always black-robed
she must have had a succession of sorrows. People weren't poor
after allwhom so many losses could overtake; they were positively
rich when they had had so much to give up. But the air of this
devoted and indifferent womanwho always madein any attitudea
beautiful accidental lineconveyed somehow to Stransom that she
had known more kinds of trouble than one.
He had a great love of music and little time for the joy of it; but
occasionallywhen workaday noises were muffled by Saturday
afternoonsit used to come back to him that there were glories.
There were moreover friends who reminded him of this and side by
side with whom he found himself sitting out concerts. On one of
these winter afternoonsin St. James's Hallhe became aware after
he had seated himself that the lady he had so often seen at church
was in the place next him and was evidently aloneas he also this
time happened to be. She was at first too absorbed in the
consideration of the programme to heed himbut when she at last
glanced at him he took advantage of the movement to speak to her
greeting her with the remark that he felt as if he already knew
her. She smiled as she said "Oh yesI recognise you"; yet in
spite of this admission of long acquaintance it was the first he
had seen of her smile. The effect of it was suddenly to contribute
more to that acquaintance than all the previous meetings had done.
He hadn't "taken in" he said to himselfthat she was so pretty.
Laterthat evening - it was while he rolled along in a hansom on
his way to dine out - he added that he hadn't taken in that she was
so interesting. The next morning in the midst of his work he quite
suddenly and irrelevantly reflected that his impression of her
beginning so far backwas like a winding river that had at last
reached the sea.
His work in fact was blurred a little all that day by the sense of
what had now passed between them. It wasn't muchbut it had just
made the difference. They had listened together to Beethoven and
Schumann; they had talked in the pausesand at the endwhen at
the doorto which they moved togetherhe had asked her if he
could help her in the matter of getting away. She had thanked him
and put up her umbrellaslipping into the crowd without an
allusion to their meeting yet again and leaving him to remember at
leisure that not a word had been exchanged about the usual scene of
that coincidence. This omission struck him now as natural and then
again as perverse. She mightn't in the least have allowed his
warrant for speaking to herand yet if she hadn't he would have
judged her an underbred woman. It was odd that when nothing had
really ever brought them together he should have been able
successfully to assume they were in a manner old friends - that
this negative quantity was somehow more than they could express.
His successit was truehad been qualified by her quick escape
so that there grew up in him an absurd desire to put it to some
better test. Save in so far as some other poor chance might help
himsuch a test could be only to meet her afresh at church. Left
to himself he would have gone to church the very next afternoon
just for the curiosity of seeing if he should find her there. But
he wasn't left to himselfa fact he discovered quite at the last
after he had virtually made up his mind to go. The influence that
kept him away really revealed to him how little to himself his Dead
EVER left him. He went only for THEM - for nothing else in the
world.
The force of this revulsion kept him away ten days: he hated to
connect the place with anything but his offices or to give a
glimpse of the curiosity that had been on the point of moving him.
It was absurd to weave a tangle about a matter so simple as a
custom of devotion that might with ease have been daily or hourly;
yet the tangle got itself woven. He was sorryhe was
disappointed: it was as if a long happy spell had been broken and
he had lost a familiar security. At the lasthoweverhe asked
himself if he was to stay away for ever from the fear of this
muddle about motives. After an interval neither longer nor shorter
than usual he re-entered the church with a clear conviction that he
should scarcely heed the presence or the absence of the lady of the
concert. This indifference didn't prevent his at once noting that
for the only time since he had first seen her she wasn't on the
spot. He had now no scruple about giving her time to arrivebut
she didn't arriveand when he went away still missing her he was
profanely and consentingly sorry. If her absence made the tangle
more intricatethat was all her own doing. By the end of another
year it was very intricate indeed; but by that time he didn't in
the least careand it was only his cultivated consciousness that
had given him scruples. Three times in three months he had gone to
church without finding herand he felt he hadn't needed these
occasions to show him his suspense had dropped. Yet it was
incongruouslynot indifferencebut a refinement of delicacy that
had kept him from asking the sacristanwho would of course
immediately have recognised his description of herwhether she had
been seen at other hours. His delicacy had kept him from asking
any question about her at any timeand it was exactly the same
virtue that had left him so free to be decently civil to her at the
concert.
This happy advantage now served him anewenabling him when she
finally met his eyes - it was after a fourth trial - to
predetermine quite fixedly his awaiting her retreat. He joined her
in the street as soon as she had movedasking her if he might
accompany her a certain distance. With her placid permission he
went as far as a house in the neighbourhood at which she had
business: she let him know it was not where she lived. She lived
as she saidin a mere slumwith an old aunta person in
connexion with whom she spoke of the engrossment of humdrum duties
and regular occupations. She wasn'tthe mourning niecein her
first youthand her vanished freshness had left something behind
thatfor Stransomrepresented the proof it had been tragically
sacrificed. Whatever she gave him the assurance of she gave
without references. She might have been a divorced duchess - she
might have been an old maid who taught the harp.
CHAPTER V.
THEY fell at last into the way of walking together almost every
time they metthough for a long time still they never met but at
church. He couldn't ask her to come and see himand as if she
hadn't a proper place to receive him she never invited her friend.
As much as himself she knew the world of Londonbut from an
undiscussed instinct of privacy they haunted the region not mapped
on the social chart. On the return she always made him leave her
at the same corner. She looked with himas a pretext for a pause
at the depressed things in suburban shop-fronts; and there was
never a word he had said to her that she hadn't beautifully
understood. For long ages he never knew her nameany more than
she had ever pronounced his own; but it was not their names that
matteredit was only their perfect practice and their common need.
These things made their whole relation so impersonal that they
hadn't the rules or reasons people found in ordinary friendships.
They didn't care for the things it was supposed necessary to care
for in the intercourse of the world. They ended one day - they
never knew which of them expressed it first - by throwing out the
idea that they didn't care for each other. Over this idea they
grew quite intimate; they rallied to it in a way that marked a
fresh start in their confidence. If to feel deeply together about
certain things wholly distinct from themselves didn't constitute a
safetywhere was safety to be looked for? Not lightly nor often
not without occasion nor without emotionany more than in any
other reference by serious people to a mystery of their faith; but
when something had happened to warmas it werethe air for it
they came as near as they could come to calling their Dead by name.
They felt it was coming very near to utter their thought at all.
The word "they" expressed enough; it limited the mentionit had a
dignity of its ownand ifin their talkyou had heard our
friends use ityou might have taken them for a pair of pagans of
old alluding decently to the domesticated gods. They never knew -
at least Stransom never knew - how they had learned to be sure
about each other. If it had been with each a question of what the
other was there forthe certitude had come in some fine way of its
own. Any faithafter allhas the instinct of propagationand it
was as natural as it was beautiful that they should have taken
pleasure on the spot in the imagination of a following. If the
following was for each but a following of one it had proved in the
event sufficient. Her debthoweverof course was much greater
than hisbecause while she had only given him a worshipper he had
given her a splendid temple. Once she said she pitied him for the
length of his list - she had counted his candles almost as often as
himself - and this made him wonder what could have been the length
of hers. He had wondered before at the coincidence of their
lossesespecially as from time to time a new candle was set up.
On some occasion some accident led him to express this curiosity
and she answered as if in surprise that he hadn't already
understood. "Oh for meyou knowthe more there are the better -
there could never be too many. I should like hundreds and hundreds
- I should like thousands; I should like a great mountain of
light."
Then of course in a flash he understood. "Your Dead are only One?"
She hung back at this as never yet. "Only One" she answered
colouring as if now he knew her guarded secret. It really made him
feel he knew less than beforeso difficult was it for him to
reconstitute a life in which a single experience had so belittled
all others. His own liferound its central hollowhad been
packed close enough. After this she appeared to have regretted her
confessionthough at the moment she spoke there had been pride in
her very embarrassment. She declared to him that his own was the
largerthe dearer possession - the portion one would have chosen
if one had been able to choose; she assured him she could perfectly
imagine some of the echoes with which his silences were peopled.
He knew she couldn't: one's relation to what one had loved and
hated had been a relation too distinct from the relations of
others. But this didn't affect the fact that they were growing old
together in their piety. She was a feature of that pietybut even
at the ripe stage of acquaintance in which they occasionally
arranged to meet at a concert or to go together to an exhibition
she was not a feature of anything else. The most that happened was
that his worship became paramount. Friend by friend dropped away
till at last there were more emblems on his altar than houses left
him to enter. She was more than any other the friend who remained
but she was unknown to all the rest. Once when she had discovered
as they called ita new starshe used the expression that the
chapel at last was full.
"Oh no" Stransom replied"there is a great thing wanting for
that! The chapel will never be full till a candle is set up before
which all the others will pale. It will be the tallest candle of
all."
Her mild wonder rested on him. "What candle do you mean?"
"I meandear ladymy own."
He had learned after a long time that she earned money by her pen
writing under a pseudonym she never disclosed in magazines he never
saw. She knew too well what he couldn't read and what she couldn't
writeand she taught him to cultivate indifference with a success
that did much for their good relations. Her invisible industry was
a convenience to him; it helped his contented thought of herthe
thought that rested in the dignity of her proud obscure lifeher
little remunerated art and her little impenetrable home. Lost
with her decayed relativein her dim suburban worldshe came to
the surface for him in distant places. She was really the
priestess of his altarand whenever he quitted England he
committed it to her keeping. She proved to him afresh that women
have more of the spirit of religion than men; he felt his fidelity
pale and faint in comparison with hers. He often said to her that
since he had so little time to live he rejoiced in her having so
much; so glad was he to think she would guard the temple when he
should have been called. He had a great plan for thatwhich of
course he told her tooa bequest of money to keep it up in
undiminished state. Of the administration of this fund he would
appoint her superintendentand if the spirit should move her she
might kindle a taper even for him.
"And who will kindle one even for me?" she then seriously asked.
CHAPTER VI.
SHE was always in mourningyet the day he came back from the
longest absence he had yet made her appearance immediately told him
she had lately had a bereavement. They met on this occasion as she
was leaving the churchso that postponing his own entrance he
instantly offered to turn round and walk away with her. She
consideredthen she said: "Go in nowbut come and see me in an
hour." He knew the small vista of her streetclosed at the end
and as dreary as an empty pocketwhere the pairs of shabby little
housessemi-detached but indissolubly unitedwere like married
couples on bad terms. Oftenhoweveras he had gone to the
beginning he had never gone beyond. Her aunt was dead - that he
immediately guessedas well as that it made a difference; but when
she had for the first time mentioned her number he found himself
on her leaving himnot a little agitated by this sudden
liberality. She wasn't a person with whomafter allone got on
so very fast: it had taken him months and months to learn her
nameyears and years to learn her address. If she had lookedon
this reunionso much older to himhow in the world did he look to
her? She had reached the period of life he had long since reached
whenafter separationsthe marked clock-face of the friend we
meet announces the hour we have tried to forget. He couldn't have
said what he expected asat the end of his waitinghe turned the
corner where for years he had always paused; simply not to pause
was a efficient cause for emotion. It was an eventsomehow; and
in all their long acquaintance there had never been an event. This
one grew larger whenfive minutes laterin the faint elegance of
her little drawing-roomshe quavered out a greeting that showed
the measure she took of it. He had a strange sense of having come
for something in particular; strange because literally there was
nothing particular between themnothing save that they were at one
on their great pointwhich had long ago become a magnificent
matter of course. It was true that after she had said "You can
always come nowyou know" the thing he was there for seemed
already to have happened. He asked her if it was the death of her
aunt that made the difference; to which she replied: "She never
knew I knew you. I wished her not to." The beautiful clearness of
her candour - her faded beauty was like a summer twilight -
disconnected the words from any image of deceit. They might have
struck him as the record of a deep dissimulation; but she had
always given him a sense of noble reasons. The vanished aunt was
presentas he looked about himin the small complacencies of the
roomthe beaded velvet and the fluted moreen; and thoughas we
knowhe had the worship of the Deadhe found himself not
definitely regretting this lady. If she wasn't in his long list
howevershe was in her niece's short oneand Stransom presently
observed to the latter that now at leastin the place they haunted
togethershe would have another object of devotion.
"YesI shall have another. She was very kind to me. It's that
that's the difference."
He judgedwondering a good deal before he made any motion to leave
herthat the difference would somehow be very great and would
consist of still other things than her having let him come in. It
rather chilled himfor they had been happy together as they were.
He extracted from her at any rate an intimation that she should now
have means less limitedthat her aunt's tiny fortune had come to
herso that there was henceforth only one to consume what had
formerly been made to suffice for two. This was a joy to Stransom
because it had hitherto been equally impossible for him either to
offer her presents or contentedly to stay his hand. It was too
ugly to be at her side that wayabounding himself and yet not able
to overflow - a demonstration that would have been signally a false
note. Even her better situation too seemed only to draw out in a
sense the loneliness of her future. It would merely help her to
live more and more for their small ceremonialand this at a time
when he himself had begun wearily to feel thathaving set it in
motionhe might depart. When they had sat a while in the pale
parlour she got up - "This isn't my room: let us go into mine."
They had only to cross the narrow hallas he foundto pass quite
into another air. When she had closed the door of the second room
as she called ithe felt at last in real possession of her. The
place had the flush of life - it was expressive; its dark red walls
were articulate with memories and relics. These were simple things
- photographs and water-coloursscraps of writing framed and
ghosts of flowers embalmed; but a moment sufficed to show him they
had a common meaning. It was here she had lived and workedand
she had already told him she would make no change of scene. He
read the reference in the objects about her - the general one to
places and times; but after a minute he distinguished among them a
small portrait of a gentleman. At a distance and without their
glasses his eyes were only so caught by it as to feel a vague
curiosity. Presently this impulse carried him nearerand in
another moment he was staring at the picture in stupefaction and
with the sense that some sound had broken from him. He was further
conscious that he showed his companion a white face when he turned
round on her gasping: "Acton Hague!"
She matched his great wonder. "Did you know him?"
"He was the friend of all my youth - of my early manhood. And YOU
knew him?"
She coloured at this and for a moment her answer failed; her eyes
embraced everything in the placeand a strange irony reached her
lips as she echoed: "Knew him?"
Then Stransom understoodwhile the room heaved like the cabin of a
shipthat its whole contents cried out with himthat it was a
museum in his honourthat all her later years had been addressed
to him and that the shrine he himself had reared had been
passionately converted to this use. It was all for Acton Hague
that she had kneeled every day at his altar. What need had there
been for a consecrated candle when he was present in the whole
array? The revelation so smote our friend in the face that he
dropped into a seat and sat silent. He had quickly felt her shaken
by the force of his shockbut as she sank on the sofa beside him
and laid her hand on his arm he knew almost as soon that she
mightn't resent it as much as she'd have liked.
CHAPTER VII.
HE learned in that instant two things: one being that even in so
long a time she had gathered no knowledge of his great intimacy and
his great quarrel; the other that in spite of this ignorance
strangely enoughshe supplied on the spot a reason for his stupor.
"How extraordinary" he presently exclaimed"that we shouldnever
have known!"
She gave a wan smile which seemed to Stransom stranger even than
the fact itself. "I nevernever spoke of him."
He looked again about the room. "Why thenif your life had been
so full of him?"
"Mayn't I put you that question as well? Hadn't your life also
been full of him?"
"Any one'severy one's life who had the wonderful experience of
knowing him. I never spoke of him" Stransom added in a moment
"because he did me - years ago - an unforgettable wrong." She was
silentand with the full effect of his presence all about them it
almost startled her guest to hear no protest escape her. She
accepted his wordshe turned his eyes to her again to see in what
manner she accepted them. It was with rising tears and a rare
sweetness in the movement of putting out her hand to take his own.
Nothing more wonderful had ever appeared to him thanin that
little chamber of remembrance and homageto see her convey with
such exquisite mildness that as from Acton Hague any injury was
credible. The clock ticked in the stillness - Hague had probably
given it to her - and while he let her hold his hand with a
tenderness that was almost an assumption of responsibility for his
old pain as well as his newStransom after a minute broke out:
"Good Godhow he must have used YOU!"
She dropped his hand at thisgot up andmoving across the room
made straight a small picture to whichon examining ithe had
given a slight push. Then turning round on him with her pale
gaiety recovered"I've forgiven him!" she declared.
"I know what you've done" said Stransom "I know what you'vedone
for years." For a moment they looked at each other through it all
with their long community of service in their eyes. This short
passage madeto his sensefor the woman before himan immense
an absolutely naked confession; which was presentlysuddenly
blushing red and changing her place againwhat she appeared to
learn he perceived in it. He got up and "How you must have loved
him!" he cried.
"Women aren't like men. They can love even where they've
suffered."
"Women are wonderful" said Stransom. "But I assure you I've
forgiven him too."
"If I had known of anything so strange I wouldn't have brought you
here."
"So that we might have gone on in our ignorance to the last?"
"What do you call the last?" she askedsmiling still.
At this he could smile back at her. "You'll see - when it comes."
She thought of that. "This is better perhaps; but as we were - it
was good."
He put her the question. "Did it never happen that he spoke of
me?"
Considering more intently she made no answerand he then knew he
should have been adequately answered by her asking how often he
himself had spoken of their terrible friend. Suddenly a brighter
light broke in her face and an excited idea sprang to her lips in
the appeal: "You HAVE forgiven him?"
"Howif I hadn'tcould I linger here?"
She visibly winced at the deep but unintended irony of this; but
even while she did so she panted quickly: "Then in the lights on
your altar - ?"
"There's never a light for Acton Hague!"
She stared with a dreadful fall"But if he's one of your Dead?"
"He's one of the world'sif you like - he's one of yours. But
he's not one of mine. Mine are only the Dead who died possessed of
me. They're mine in death because they were mine in life."
"HE was yours in life theneven if for a while he ceased to be.
If you forgave him you went back to him. Those whom we've once
loved - "
"Are those who can hurt us most" Stransom broke in.
"Ah it's not true - you've NOT forgiven him!" she wailed with a
passion that startled him.
He looked at her as never yet. "What was it he did to you?"
"Everything!" Then abruptly she put out her hand in farewell.
"Good-bye."
He turned as cold as he had turned that night he read the man's
death. "You mean that we meet no more?"
"Not as we've met - not THERE!"
He stood aghast at this snap of their great bondat the
renouncement that rang out in the word she so expressively sounded.
"But what's changed - for you?"
She waited in all the sharpness of a trouble that for the first
time since he had known her made her splendidly stern. "How can
you understand now when you didn't understand before?"
"I didn't understand before only because I didn't know. Now that I
knowI see what I've been living with for years" Stransom went on
very gently.
She looked at him with a larger allowancedoing this gentleness
justice. "How can I thenon this new knowledge of my ownask you
to continue to live with it?"
"I set up my altarwith its multiplied meanings" Stransom began;
but she quietly interrupted him.
"You set up your altarand when I wanted one most I found it
magnificently ready. I used it with the gratitude I've always
shown youfor I knew it from of old to be dedicated to Death. I
told you long ago that my Dead weren't many. Yours werebut all
you had done for them was none too much for MY worship! You had
placed a great light for Each - I gathered them together for One!"
"We had simply different intentions" he returned. "Thatasyou
sayI perfectly knewand I don't see why your intention shouldn't
still sustain you."
"That's because you're generous - you can imagine and think. But
the spell is broken."
It seemed to poor Stransomin spite of his resistancethat it
really wasand the prospect stretched grey and void before him.
All he could sayhoweverwas: "I hope you'll try before you give
up."
"If I had known you had ever known him I should have taken for
granted he had his candle" she presently answered. "What's
changedas you sayis that on making the discovery I find he
never has had it. That makes MY attitude" - she paused as thinking
how to express itthen said simply - "all wrong."
"Come once again" he pleaded.
"Will you give him his candle?" she asked.
He waitedbut only because it would sound ungracious; not because
of a doubt of his feeling. "I can't do that!" he declared at last.
"Then good-bye." And she gave him her hand again.
He had got his dismissal; besides whichin the agitation of
everything that had opened out to himhe felt the need to recover
himself as he could only do in solitude. Yet he lingered -
lingered to see if she had no compromise to expressno attenuation
to propose. But he only met her great lamenting eyesin which
indeed he read that she was as sorry for him as for any one else.
This made him say: "At leastin any caseI may see you here."
"Oh yescome if you like. But I don't think it will do."
He looked round the room once moreknowing how little he was sure
it would do. He felt also stricken and more and more coldand his
chill was like an ague in which he had to make an effort not to
shake. Then he made doleful reply: "I must try on my side - if
you can't try on yours." She came out with him to the hall and
into the doorwayand here he put her the question he held he could
least answer from his own wit. "Why have you never let me come
before?"
"Because my aunt would have seen youand I should have had to tell
her how I came to know you."
"And what would have been the objection to that?"
"It would have entailed other explanations; there would at any rate
have been that danger."
"Surely she knew you went every day to church" Stransom objected.
"She didn't know what I went for."
"Of me then she never even heard?"
"You'll think I was deceitful. But I didn't need to be!"
He was now on the lower door-stepand his hostess held the door
half-closed behind him. Through what remained of the opening he
saw her framed face. He made a supreme appeal. "What DID he do to
you?"
"It would have come out - SHE would have told you. That fear at my
heart - that was my reason!" And she closed the doorshutting him
out.
CHAPTER VIII.
HE had ruthlessly abandoned her - that of course was what he had
done. Stransom made it all out in solitudeat leisurefitting
the unmatched pieces gradually together and dealing one by one with
a hundred obscure points. She had known Hague only after her
present friend's relations with him had wholly terminated;
obviously indeed a good while after; and it was natural enough that
of his previous life she should have ascertained only what he had
judged good to communicate. There were passages it was quite
conceivable that even in moments of the tenderest expansion he
should have withheld. Of many facts in the career of a man so in
the eye of the world there was of course a common knowledge; but
this lady lived apart from public affairsand the only time
perfectly clear to her would have been the time following the dawn
of her own drama. A man in her place would have "looked up" the
past - would even have consulted old newspapers. It remained
remarkable indeed that in her long contact with the partner of her
retrospect no accident had lighted a train; but there was no
arguing about that; the accident had in fact come: it had simply
been that security had prevailed. She had taken what Hague had
given herand her blankness in respect of his other connexions was
only a touch in the picture of that plasticity Stransom had supreme
reason to know so great a master could have been trusted to
produce.
This picture was for a while all our friend saw: he caught his
breath again and again as it came over him that the woman with whom
he had had for years so fine a point of contact was a woman whom
Acton Hagueof all men in the worldhad more or less fashioned.
Such as she sat there to-day she was ineffaceably stamped with him.
Beneficentblameless as Stransom held herhe couldn't rid himself
of the sense that he had beenas who should sayswindled. She
had imposed upon him hugelythough she had known it as little as
he. All this later past came back to him as a time grotesquely
misspent. Such at least were his first reflexions; after a while
he found himself more divided and onlyas the end of itmore
troubled. He imaginedrecalledreconstitutedfigured out for
himself the truth she had refused to give him; the effect of which
was to make her seem to him only more saturated with her fate. He
felt her spiritthrough the whole strangenessfiner than his own
to the very degree in which she might have beenin which she
certainly had beenmore wronged. A womenwhen wrongedwas
always more wronged than a manand there were conditions when the
least she could have got off with was more than the most he could
have to bear. He was sure this rare creature wouldn't have got off
with the least. He was awestruck at the thought of such a
surrender - such a prostration. Moulded indeed she had been by
powerful handsto have converted her injury into an exaltation so
sublime. The fellow had only had to die for everything that was
ugly in him to be washed out in a torrent. It was vain to try to
guess what had taken placebut nothing could be clearer than that
she had ended by accusing herself. She absolved him at every
pointshe adored her very wounds. The passion by which he had
profited had rushed back after its ebband now the tide of
tendernessarrested for ever at floodwas too deep even to
fathom. Stransom sincerely considered that he had forgiven him;
but how little he had achieved the miracle that she had achieved!
His forgiveness was silencebut hers was mere unuttered sound.
The light she had demanded for his altar would have broken his
silence with a blare; whereas all the lights in the church were for
her too great a hush.
She had been right about the difference - she had spoken the truth
about the change: Stransom was soon to know himself as perversely
but sharply jealous. HIS tide had ebbednot flowed; if he had
"forgiven" Acton Haguethat forgiveness was a motive with a broken
spring. The very fact of her appeal for a material signa sign
that should make her dead lover equal there with the others
presented the concession to her friend as too handsome for the
case. He had never thought of himself as hardbut an exorbitant
article might easily render him so. He moved round and round this
onebut only in widening circles - the more he looked at it the
less acceptable it seemed. At the same time he had no illusion
about the effect of his refusal; he perfectly saw how it would make
for a rupture. He left her alone a weekbut when at last he again
called this conviction was cruelly confirmed. In the interval he
had kept away from the churchand he needed no fresh assurance
from her to know she hadn't entered it. The change was complete
enough: it had broken up her life. Indeed it had broken up his
for all the fires of his shrine seemed to him suddenly to have been
quenched. A great indifference fell upon himthe weight of which
was in itself a pain; and he never knew what his devotion had been
for him till in that shock it ceased like a dropped watch. Neither
did he know with how large a confidence he had counted on the final
service that had now failed: the mortal deception was that in this
abandonment the whole future gave way.
These days of her absence proved to him of what she was capable;
all the more that he never dreamed she was vindictive or even
resentful. It was not in anger she had forsaken him; it was in
simple submission to hard realityto the stern logic of life.
This came home to him when he sat with her again in the room in
which her late aunt's conversation lingered like the tone of a
cracked piano. She tried to make him forget how much they were
estrangedbut in the very presence of what they had given up it
was impossible not to be sorry for her. He had taken from her so
much more than she had taken from him. He argued with her again
told her she could now have the altar to herself; but she only
shook her head with pleading sadnessbegging him not to waste his
breath on the impossiblethe extinct. Couldn't he see that in
relation to her private need the rites he had established were
practically an elaborate exclusion? She regretted nothing that had
happened; it had all been right so long as she didn't knowand it
was only that now she knew too much and that from the moment their
eyes were open they would simply have to conform. It had doubtless
been happiness enough for them to go on together so long. She was
gentlegratefulresigned; but this was only the form of a deep
immoveability. He saw he should never more cross the threshold of
the second roomand he felt how much this alone would make a
stranger of him and give a conscious stiffness to his visits. He
would have hated to plunge again into that well of remindersbut
he enjoyed quite as little the vacant alternative.
After he had been with her three or four times it struck him that
to have come at last into her house had had the horrid effect of
diminishing their intimacy. He had known her betterhad liked her
in greater freedomwhen they merely walked together or kneeled
together. Now they only pretended; before they had been nobly
sincere. They began to try their walks againbut it proved a lame
imitationfor these thingsfrom the firstbeginning or ending
had been connected with their visits to the church. They had
either strolled away as they came out or gone in to rest on the
return. Stransombesidesnow faltered; he couldn't walk as of
old. The omission made everything false; it was a dire mutilation
of their lives. Our friend was frank and monotonousmaking no
mystery of his remonstrance and no secret of his predicament. Her
responsewhatever it wasalways came to the same thing - an
implied invitation to him to judgeif he spoke of predicamentsof
how much comfort she had in hers. For him indeed was no comfort
even in complaintsince every allusion to what had befallen them
but made the author of their trouble more present. Acton Hague was
between them - that was the essence of the matterand never so
much between them as when they were face to face. Then Stransom
while still wanting to banish himhad the strangest sense of
striving for an ease that would involve having accepted him.
Deeply disconcerted by what he knewhe was still worse tormented
by really not knowing. Perfectly aware that it would have been
horribly vulgar to abuse his old friend or to tell his companion
the story of their quarrelit yet vexed him that her depth of
reserve should give him no opening and should have the effect of a
magnanimity greater even than his own.
He challenged himselfdenounced himselfasked himself if he were
in love with her that he should care so much what adventures she
had had. He had never for a moment allowed he was in love with
her; therefore nothing could have surprised him more than to
discover he was jealous. What but jealousy could give a man that
sore contentious wish for the detail of what would make him suffer?
Well enough he knew indeed that he should never have it from the
only person who to-day could give it to him. She let him press her
with his sombre eyesonly smiling at him with an exquisite mercy
and breathing equally little the word that would expose her secret
and the word that would appear to deny his literal right to
bitterness. She told nothingshe judged nothing; she accepted
everything but the possibility of her return to the old symbols.
Stransom divined that for her too they had been vividly individual
had stood for particular hours or particular attributes -
particular links in her chain. He made it clear to himselfas he
believedthat his difficulty lay in the fact that the very nature
of the plea for his faithless friend constituted a prohibition;
that it happened to have come from HER was precisely the vice that
attached to it. To the voice of impersonal generosity he felt sure
he would have listened; he would have deferred to an advocate who
speaking from abstract justiceknowing of his denial without
having known Hagueshould have had the imagination to say: "Ah
remember only the best of him; pity him; provide for him." To
provide for him on the very ground of having discovered another of
his turpitudes was not to pity but to glorify him. The more
Stransom thought the more he made out that whatever this relation
of Hague's it could only have been a deception more or less finely
practised. Where had it come into the life that all men saw? Why
had one never heard of it if it had had the frankness of honourable
things? Stransom knew enough of his other tiesof his obligations
and appearancesnot to say enough of his general characterto be
sure there had been some infamy. In one way or another this
creature had been coldly sacrificed. That was why at the last as
well as the first he must still leave him out and out.
CHAPTER IX.
AND yet this was no solutionespecially after he had talked again
to his friend of all it had been his plan she should finally do for
him. He had talked in the other daysand she had responded with a
frankness qualified only by a courteous reluctancea reluctance
that touched himto linger on the question of his death. She had
then practically accepted the chargesuffered him to feel he could
depend upon her to be the eventual guardian of his shrine; and it
was in the name of what had so passed between them that he appealed
to her not to forsake him in his age. She listened at present with
shining coldness and all her habitual forbearance to insist on her
terms; her deprecation was even still tendererfor it expressed
the compassion of her own sense that he was abandoned. Her terms
howeverremained the sameand scarcely the less audible for not
being uttered; though he was sure that secretly even more than he
she felt bereft of the satisfaction his solemn trust was to have
provided her. They both missed the rich futurebut she missed it
mostbecause after all it was to have been entirely hers; and it
was her acceptance of the loss that gave him the full measure of
her preference for the thought of Acton Hague over any other
thought whatever. He had humour enough to laugh rather grimly when
he said to himself: "Why the deuce does she like him so much more
than she likes me?" - the reasons being really so conceivable. But
even his faculty of analysis left the irritation standingand this
irritation proved perhaps the greatest misfortune that had ever
overtaken him. There had been nothing yet that made him so much
want to give up. He had of course by this time well reached the
age of renouncement; but it had not hitherto been vivid to him that
it was time to give up everything.
Practicallyat the end of six monthshe had renounced the
friendship once so charming and comforting. His privation had two
facesand the face it had turned to him on the occasion of his
last attempt to cultivate that friendship was the one he could look
at least. This was the privation he inflicted; the other was the
privation he bore. The conditions she never phrased he used to
murmur to himself in solitude: "One moreone more - only just
one." Certainly he was going down; he often felt it when he caught
himselfover his workstaring at vacancy and giving voice to that
inanity. There was proof enough besides in his being so weak and
so ill. His irritation took the form of melancholyand his
melancholy that of the conviction that his health had quite failed.
His altar moreover had ceased to exist; his chapelin his dreams
was a great dark cavern. All the lights had gone out - all his
Dead had died again. He couldn't exactly see at first how it had
been in the power of his late companion to extinguish themsince
it was neither for her nor by her that they had been called into
being. Then he understood that it was essentially in his own soul
the revival had taken placeand that in the air of this soul they
were now unable to breathe. The candles might mechanically burn
but each of them had lost its lustre. The church had become a
void; it was his presenceher presencetheir common presence
that had made the indispensable medium. If anything was wrong
everything was - her silence spoiled the tune.
Then when three months were gone he felt so lonely that he went
back; reflecting that as they had been his best society for years
his Dead perhaps wouldn't let him forsake them without doing
something more for him. They stood thereas he had left themin
their tall radiancethe bright cluster that had already made him
on occasions when he was willing to compare small things with
greatliken them to a group of sea-lights on the edge of the ocean
of life. It was a relief to himafter a whileas he sat there
to feel they had still a virtue. He was more and more easily
tiredand he always drove now; the action of his heart was weak
and gave him none of the reassurance conferred by the action of his
fancy. None the less he returned yet againreturned several
timesand finallyduring six monthshaunted the place with a
renewal of frequency and a strain of impatience. In winter the
church was unwarmed and exposure to cold forbidden himbut the
glow of his shrine was an influence in which he could almost bask.
He sat and wondered to what he had reduced his absent associate and
what she now did with the hours of her absence. There were other
churchesthere were other altarsthere were other candles; in one
way or another her piety would still operate; he couldn't
absolutely have deprived her of her rites. So he arguedbut
without contentment; for he well enough knew there was no other
such rare semblance of the mountain of light she had once mentioned
to him as the satisfaction of her need. As this semblance again
gradually grew great to him and his pious practice more regularhe
found a sharper and sharper pang in the imagination of her
darkness; for never so much as in these weeks had his rites been
realnever had his gathered company seemed so to respond and even
to invite. He lost himself in the large lustrewhich was more and
more what he had from the first wished it to be - as dazzling as
the vision of heaven in the mind of a child. He wandered in the
fields of light; he passedamong the tall tapersfrom tier to
tierfrom fire to firefrom name to namefrom the white
intensity of one clear emblemof one saved soulto another. It
was in the quiet sense of having saved his souls that his deep
strange instinct rejoiced. This was no dim theological rescueno
boon of a contingent world; they were saved better than faith or
works could save themsaved for the warm world they had shrunk
from dying tofor actualityfor continuityfor the certainty of
human remembrance.
By this time he had survived all his friends; the last straight
flame was three years oldthere was no one to add to the list.
Over and over he called his rolland it appeared to him compact
and complete. Where should he put in anotherwhereif there were
no other objectionwould it stand in its place in the rank? He
reflectedwith a want of sincerity of which he was quite
consciousthat it would be difficult to determine that place.
More and morebesidesface to face with his little legionover
endless historieshandling the empty shells and playing with the
silence - more and more he could see that he had never introduced
an alien. He had had his great companionshis indulgences - there
were cases in which they had been immense; but what had his
devotion after all been if it hadn't been at bottom a respect? He
washoweverhimself surprised at his stiffness; by the end of the
winter the responsibility of it was what was uppermost in his
thoughts. The refrain had grown old to themthat plea for just
one more. There came a day whenfor simple exhaustionif
symmetry should demand just one he was ready so far to meet
symmetry. Symmetry was harmonyand the idea of harmony began to
haunt him; he said to himself that harmony was of course
everything. He tookin fancyhis composition to pieces
redistributing it into other linesmaking other juxtapositions and
contrasts. He shifted this and that candlehe made the spaces
differenthe effaced the disfigurement of a possible gap. There
were subtle and complex relationsa scheme of cross-referenceand
moments in which he seemed to catch a glimpse of the void so
sensible to the woman who wandered in exile or sat where he had
seen her with the portrait of Acton Hague. Finallyin this way
he arrived at a conception of the totalthe idealwhich left a
clear opportunity for just another figure. "Just one more - to
round it off; just one morejust one" continued to hum in his
head. There was a strange confusion in the thoughtfor he felt
the day to be near when he too should be one of the Others. What
in this event would the Others matter to himsince they only
mattered to the living? Even as one of the Dead what would his
altar matter to himsince his particular dream of keeping it up
had melted away? What had harmony to do with the case if his
lights were all to be quenched? What he had hoped for was an
instituted thing. He might perpetuate it on some other pretext
but his special meaning would have dropped. This meaning was to
have lasted with the life of the one other person who understood
it.
In March he had an illness during which he spent a fortnight in
bedand when he revived a little he was told of two things that
had happened. One was that a lady whose name was not known to the
servants (she left none) had been three times to ask about him; the
other was that in his sleep and on an occasion when his mind
evidently wandered he was heard to murmur again and again: "Just
one more - just one." As soon as he found himself able to go out
and before the doctor in attendance had pronounced him sohe drove
to see the lady who had come to ask about him. She was not at
home; but this gave him the opportunitybefore his strength should
fall againto take his way to the church. He entered it alone; he
had declinedin a happy manner he possessed of being able to
decline effectivelythe company of his servant or of a nurse. He
knew now perfectly what these good people thought; they had
discovered his clandestine connexionthe magnet that had drawn him
for so many yearsand doubtless attached a significance of their
own to the odd words they had repeated to him. The nameless lady
was the clandestine connexion - a fact nothing could have made
clearer than his indecent haste to rejoin her. He sank on his
knees before his altar while his head fell over on his hands. His
weaknesshis life's weariness overtook him. It seemed to him he
had come for the great surrender. At first he asked himself how he
should get away; thenwith the failing belief in the powerthe
very desire to move gradually left him. He had comeas he always
cameto lose himself; the fields of light were still there to
stray in; only this timein strayinghe would never come back.
He had given himself to his Deadand it was good: this time his
Dead would keep him. He couldn't rise from his knees; he believed
he should never rise again; all he could do was to lift his face
and fix his eyes on his lights. They looked unusuallystrangely
splendidbut the one that always drew him most had an
unprecedented lustre. It was the central voice of the choirthe
glowing heart of the brightnessand on this occasion it seemed to
expandto spread great wings of flame. The whole altar flared -
dazzling and blinding; but the source of the vast radiance burned
clearer than the restgathering itself into formand the form was
human beauty and human charitywas the far-off face of Mary
Antrim. She smiled at him from the glory of heaven - she brought
the glory down with her to take him. He bowed his head in
submission and at the same moment another wave rolled over him.
Was it the quickening of joy to pain? In the midst of his joy at
any rate he felt his buried face grow hot as with some communicated
knowledge that had the force of a reproach. It suddenly made him
contrast that very rapture with the bliss he had refused to
another. This breath of the passion immortal was all that other
had asked; the descent of Mary Antrim opened his spirit with a
great compunctious throb for the descent of Acton Hague. It was as
if Stransom had read what her eyes said to him.
After a moment he looked round in a despair that made him feel as
if the source of life were ebbing. The church had been empty - he
was alone; but he wanted to have something doneto make a last
appeal. This idea gave him strength for an effort; he rose to his
feet with a movement that made him turnsupporting himself by the
back of a bench. Behind him was a prostrate figurea figure he
had seen before; a woman in deep mourningbowed in grief or in
prayer. He had seen her in other days - the first time of his
entrance thereand he now slightly waveredlooking at her again
till she seemed aware he had noticed her. She raised her head and
met his eyes: the partner of his long worship had come back. She
looked across at him an instant with a face wondering and scared;
he saw he had made her afraid. Then quickly rising she came
straight to him with both hands out.
"Then you COULD come? God sent you!" he murmured with a happy
smile.
"You're very ill - you shouldn't be here" she urged in anxious
reply.
"God sent me tooI think. I was ill when I camebut the sight of
you does wonders." He held her handswhich steadied and quickened
him. "I've something to tell you."
"Don't tell me!" she tenderly pleaded; "let me tell you. This
afternoonby a miraclethe sweetest of miraclesthe sense of our
difference left me. I was out - I was nearthinkingwandering
alonewhenon the spotsomething changed in my heart. It's my
confession - there it is. To come backto come back on the
instant - the idea gave me wings. It was as if I suddenly saw
something - as if it all became possible. I could come for what
you yourself came for: that was enough. So here I am. It's not
for my own - that's over. But I'm here for THEM." And breathless
infinitely relieved by her low precipitate explanationshe looked
with eyes that reflected all its splendour at the magnificence of
their altar.
"They're here for you" Stransom said"they're presentto-night as
they've never been. They speak for you - don't you see? - in a
passion of light; they sing out like a choir of angels. Don't you
hear what they say? - they offer the very thing you asked of me."
"Don't talk of it - don't think of it; forget it!" She spoke in
hushed supplicationand while the alarm deepened in her eyes she
disengaged one of her hands and passed an arm round him to support
him betterto help him to sink into a seat.
He let himself goresting on her; he dropped upon the bench and
she fell on her knees beside himhis own arm round her shoulder.
So he remained an instantstaring up at his shrine. "They say
there's a gap in the array - they say it's not fullcomplete.
Just one more" he went onsoftly - "isn't that what you wanted?
Yesone moreone more."
"Ah no more - no more!" she wailedas with a quick new horror of
itunder her breath.
"Yesone more" he repeatedsimply; "just one!" Andwith this
his head dropped on her shoulder; she felt that in his weakness he
had fainted. But alone with him in the dusky church a great dread
was on her of what might still happenfor his face had the
whiteness of death.