The Altar of the Dead by Henry James

The Altar of the Dead by Henry James.The Altar of the DeadCHAPTER I.HE had a mortal
dislike, poor Stransom, to lean anniversaries, and loved them still less when they made a
pretence of a figure. Celebrations and suppressions were equally painful to him, and 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 fixed, and he had lost before fairly tasting it an affection that
promised to fill his life to the brim.Of that benediction, however, it 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 passions, and 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 never, never forgotten. He had tried to
put into his existence whatever else might take up room in it, but 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 it,
but 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 suburb, a part then of Nature's
breast, but 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 image, they 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 men, but he had counted his losses more; he hadn't seen death more closely, but 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 essence, their conscious absence and
expressive patience, as personally there as if they had only been stricken dumb. When all
sense of them failed, all sound of them ceased, it was as if their purgatory were really still on
earth: they asked so little that they got, poor things, even less, and died again, died every
day, of the hard usage of life. They had no organised service, no reserved place, no
honour, no shelter, no safety. Even ungenerous people provided for the living, but 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 something,
do it, that is, for his own - would perform the great charity without reproach. Every man
HAD his own, and every man had, to meet this charity, the 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 pensioners, those
whom indeed he always called in his thoughts the Others. He spared them the moments,
he organised the charity. Quite how it had risen he probably never could have told you, but
what came to pass was that an altar, such as was after all within everybody's compass,
lighted with perpetual candles and dedicated to these secret rites, reared itself in his spiritual
spaces. He had wondered of old, in some embarrassment, whether he had a religion;
being very sure, and not a little content, that 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 inclination, it satisfied his spirit, it gave
employment to his piety. It answered his love of great offices, of 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 incense,
make them flush with pictures and flowers. The cost, in the common phrase, of keeping
them up fell wholly on the generous heart.CHAPTER II.HE had this year, on the eve of his
anniversary, as happened, an 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 laugh, in 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 suspend, in a
vision, a string of pearls about the white neck of Mary Antrim, and then was kept an instant
longer by the sound of a voice he knew. Next him was a mumbling old woman, and
beyond the old woman a gentleman with a lady on his arm. It was from him, from Paul
Creston, the 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 instant, only 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 voice, the drop conjugal, if it ever was, and in the way the
two figures leaned to each other. Creston, making a step to look at something else, came
nearer, glanced at him, started and exclaimed - behaviour the effect of which was at first only
to leave Stransom staring, staring back across the months at the different face, the wholly
other face, the poor man had shown him last, the 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 fellow, let me make you acquainted with my wife."Creston
had blushed and stammered over it, but in half a minute, at the rate we live in polite society,
it had practically become, for our friend, the mere memory of a shock. They stood there and
laughed and talked; Stransom had instantly whisked the shock out of the way, to keep it for
private consumption. He felt himself grimace, he heard himself exaggerate the proper, but
was conscious of turning not a little faint. That new woman, that hired performer, Mrs.
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 window, and 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 America, and
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 having, while his bereavement was
still fresh, crossed the sea for what people in such predicaments call a little change. He had
found the little change indeed, he had brought the little change back; it was the little change
that stood there and that, do what he would, he couldn't, while he showed those high front
teeth of his, look other than a conscious ass about. They were going into the shop, Mrs.
Creston said, and she begged Mr. Stransom to come with them and help to decide. He
thanked her, opening his watch and pleading an engagement for which he was already late,
and 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 that, and Stransom hoped it hurt him
somewhere to hear her scream it to all the echoes.He felt quite determined, as he walked
away, never in his life to go near her. She was perhaps a human being, but Creston
oughtn't to have shown her without precautions, oughtn't indeed to have shown her at all.
His precautions should have been those of a forger or a murderer, and 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 Creston, if the man to whom she had given
everything couldn't. He had known her twenty years, and 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 her, without 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 husband, but he never suspected it, and 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 have, ere the grass was
green on her grave, no more existence for him than a domestic servant he had replaced.
The frivolity, the indecency of it made Stransom's eyes fill; and he had that evening a sturdy
sense that he alone, in a world without delicacy, had a right to hold up his head. While he
smoked, after dinner, he had a book in his lap, but he had no eyes for his page: his eyes,
in the swarming void of things, seemed to have caught Kate Creston's, and it was into their
sad silences he looked. It was to him her sentient spirit had turned, knowing 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 again, in a quiet lamplit room, long 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 up, and this time, at the top of a paragraph,
he was caught by five words that made him start. He stood staring, before the fire, at 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 Islands, Acton Hague had died, in the
bleak honour of this exile, of an illness consequent on the bite of a poisonous snake. His
career was compressed by the newspaper into a dozen lines, the perusal of which excited
on George Stransom's part no warmer feeling than one of relief at the absence of any
mention of their quarrel, an incident accidentally tainted at the time, thanks to their joint
immersion in large affairs, with a horrible publicity. Public indeed was the wrong Stransom
had, to his own sense, suffered, the insult he had blankly taken from the only man with
whom he had ever been intimate; the friend, almost adored, of his University years, the
subject, later, of his passionate loyalty: so public that he had never spoken of it to a human
creature, so public that he had completely overlooked it. It had made the difference for him
that friendship too was all over, but it had only made just that one. The shock of interests
had been private, intensely 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 cold, suddenly and horribly cold, to bed.CHAPTER III.THE next day, in the
afternoon, in the great grey suburb, he knew his long walk had tired him. In the dreadful
cemetery alone he had been on his feet an hour. Instinctively, coming back, they had taken
him a devious course, and 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 day, because, in the former case of the civil gift of light. By day
there was nothing, but by night there were lamps, and George Stransom was in a mood
that made lamps good in themselves. It wasn't that they could show him anything, it was
only that they could burn clear. To his surprise, however, after a while, they did show him
something: the arch of a high doorway approached by a low terrace of steps, in 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 up, recognising 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 persuasion, and 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 liked, and 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 about, an old woman coughed, but 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 intrusive,
gaining at last even a sense of community with the only worshipper in his neighbourhood,
the sombre presence of a woman, in mourning unrelieved, whose 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 sink, like her, to the very bottom, be as motionless, as 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 himself, floating 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 type, set
up in a myriad temples, of the unapproachable shrine he had erected in his mind. That
shrine had begun in vague likeness to church pomps, but the echo had ended by growing
more distinct than the sound. The sound now rang out, the 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 them, named them, grouped them - it was the silent roll-call of his Dead.
They made together a brightness vast and intense, a 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
while, at a distance, the black-robed lady continued prostrate; he was quietly thrilled with his
conception, which at last brought him to his feet in the sudden excitement of a plan. He
wandered softly through the aisles, pausing in the different chapels, all save one applied to
a special devotion. It was in this clear recess, lampless 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 year, with the sanctifying church round it, it
would always be ready for his offices. There would be difficulties, but 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 advance, and 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 times, but especially in the indifferent world. Before
withdrawing he drew nearer again to the spot where he had first sat down, and 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 quickly, and he had only a glimpse of her pale face and her
unconscious, almost sightless eyes. For that instant she looked faded and handsome.This
was the origin of the rites more public, yet certainly esoteric, that he at last found himself
able to establish. It took a long time, it took a year, and both the process and the result
would have been - for any who knew - a vivid picture of his good faith. No one did know, in
fact - no one but the bland ecclesiastics whose acquaintance he had promptly sought,
whose objections he had softly overridden, whose curiosity and sympathy he had artfully
charmed, whose assent to his eccentric munificence he had eventually won, and who had
asked for concessions in exchange for indulgences. Stransom had of course at an early
stage of his enquiry been referred to the Bishop, and the Bishop had been delightfully
human, the Bishop had been almost amused. Success was within sight, at 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 it, consecrated to an ostensible
and customary worship, were 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 it, liked 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-caves, and 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 really, his Dead, something that was indefensibly theirs; and he liked to think
that they might in cases be the Dead of others, as 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 him, and from time to time a new light was kindled. This was what he had
fundamentally agreed for, that 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 usefulness, with a quiet elderly man, for whom it evidently had a fascination, often
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 ties, the affections, the
struggles, the submissions, the conquests, if there had been such, a 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 death, and the successive phases of
the acquaintance were marked each with a flame.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.CHAPTER IV.EVERY year, the day he walked back from the great
graveyard, he went to church as he had done the day his idea was born. It was on this
occasion, as it happened, after a year had passed, that he began to observe his altar to be
haunted by a worshipper at least as frequent as himself. Others of the faithful, and in the
rest of the church, came and went, appealing sometimes, when they disappeared, to 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 surprised, the first time,
at the promptitude with which it assumed an identity for him - the identity of the lady whom
two years before, on his anniversary, he had seen so intensely bowed, and of whose tragic
face he had had so flitting a vision. Given the time that had passed, his recollection of her
was fresh enough to make him wonder. Of himself she had of course no impression, or
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
him, she used it for her own Dead. There were interruptions, infidelities, all on his part, calls
to other associations and duties; but as the months went on he found her whenever he
returned, and 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 sure, so straight did their prospect stretch away of
growing old together in their rites. She was younger than he, but she looked as if her Dead
were at least as numerous as his candles. She had no colour, no sound, no fault, and
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 all, whom 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 woman, who always made,
in any attitude, a beautiful accidental line, conveyed 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 occasionally, when workaday noises were muffled by Saturday afternoons, it 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 afternoons, in St. James's Hall, he 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
alone, as he also this time happened to be. She was at first too absorbed in the
consideration of the programme to heed him, but 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 yes, I 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 himself, that she was so pretty. Later, that 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 back, was 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 much, but it had just made the
difference. They had listened together to Beethoven and Schumann; they had talked in the
pauses, and at the end, when at the door, to which they moved together, he had asked her
if he could help her in the matter of getting away. She had thanked him and put up her
umbrella, slipping 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 her, and 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 success, it was true, had 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 him, such 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 himself, a 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 sorry, he was disappointed: it was as if a long happy
spell had been broken and he had lost a familiar security. At the last, however, he 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 arrive, but she
didn't arrive, and when he went away still missing her he was profanely and consentingly
sorry. If her absence made the tangle more intricate, that 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 care, and it
was only his cultivated consciousness that had given him scruples. Three times in three
months he had gone to church without finding her, and he felt he hadn't needed these
occasions to show him his suspense had dropped. Yet it was, incongruously, not
indifference, but a refinement of delicacy that had kept him from asking the sacristan, who
would of course immediately have recognised his description of her, whether she had been
seen at other hours. His delicacy had kept him from asking any question about her at any
time, and 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 anew, enabling 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 moved, asking 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 said, in a mere slum, with an old aunt, a person in connexion with whom
she spoke of the engrossment of humdrum duties and regular occupations. She wasn't, the
mourning niece, in her first youth, and her vanished freshness had left something behind
that, for Stransom, represented 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 met, though for a long time
still they never met but at church. He couldn't ask her to come and see him, and 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 London, but 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 him, as 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 name, any more than she had
ever pronounced his own; but it was not their names that mattered, it 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 safety, where was safety to
be looked for? Not lightly nor often, not without occasion nor without emotion, any more
than in any other reference by serious people to a mystery of their faith; but when
something had happened to warm, as it were, the 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 mention, it had a dignity of its own,
and if, in their talk, you had heard our friends use it, you 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 for, the certitude had come in some fine
way of its own. Any faith, after all, has the instinct of propagation, and 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 debt, however, of course was much greater than his, because 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 losses, especially 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 me, you know, the
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 before, so difficult was it for him to reconstitute a life in which a single
experience had so belittled all others. His own life, round its central hollow, had been
packed close enough. After this she appeared to have regretted her confession, though at
the moment she spoke there had been pride in her very embarrassment. She declared to
him that his own was the larger, the 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 piety, but 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 it, a new star, she 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
mean, dear lady, my 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 write, and 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 her, the thought that
rested in the dignity of her proud obscure life, her little remunerated art and her little
impenetrable home. Lost, with her decayed relative, in her dim suburban world, she came
to the surface for him in distant places. She was really the priestess of his altar, and
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 that, which of course he told her too, a bequest
of money to keep it up in undiminished state. Of the administration of this fund he would
appoint her superintendent, and 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 mourning, yet 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 church, so that postponing his own
entrance he instantly offered to turn round and walk away with her. She considered, then
she said: "Go in now, but come and see me in an hour." He knew the small vista of her
street, closed at the end and as dreary as an empty pocket, where the pairs of shabby little
houses, semi-detached but indissolubly united, were like married couples on bad terms.
Often, however, as he had gone to the beginning he had never gone beyond. Her aunt
was dead - that he immediately guessed, as well as that it made a difference; but when she
had for the first time mentioned her number he found himself, on her leaving him, not a little
agitated by this sudden liberality. She wasn't a person with whom, after all, one got on so
very fast: it had taken him months and months to learn her name, years and years to learn
her address. If she had looked, on this reunion, so much older to him, how in the world did
he look to her? She had reached the period of life he had long since reached, when, after
separations, the marked clock-face of the friend we meet announces the hour we have tried
to forget. He couldn't have said what he expected as, at the end of his waiting, he turned
the corner where for years he had always paused; simply not to pause was a efficient
cause for emotion. It was an event, somehow; and in all their long acquaintance there had
never been an event. This one grew larger when, five minutes later, in the faint elegance of
her little drawing-room, she 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 them, nothing save that they were at one on their great
point, which had long ago become a magnificent matter of course. It was true that after she
had said "You can always come now, you 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 present, as he looked about him, in the small complacencies of the
room, the beaded velvet and the fluted moreen; and though, as we know, he had the
worship of the Dead, he found himself not definitely regretting this lady. If she wasn't in his
long list, however, she was in her niece's short one, and Stransom presently observed to
the latter that now at least, in the place they haunted together, she would have another
object of devotion."Yes, I shall have another. She was very kind to me. It's that that's the
difference."He judged, wondering a good deal before he made any motion to leave her,
that the difference would somehow be very great and would consist of still other things than
her having let him come in. It rather chilled him, for they had been happy together as they
were. He extracted from her at any rate an intimation that she should now have means less
limited, that her aunt's tiny fortune had come to her, so 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 way, abounding 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 ceremonial, and this at
a time when he himself had begun wearily to feel that, having set it in motion, he 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 hall, as he found, to pass quite into
another air. When she had closed the door of the second room, as she called it, he 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-colours, scraps 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 worked,
and 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 nearer, and 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 place, and a
strange irony reached her lips as she echoed: "Knew him?"Then Stransom understood,
while the room heaved like the cabin of a ship, that its whole contents cried out with him, that
it was a museum in his honour, that 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 shock, but 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 enough, she supplied on the spot a reason for his
stupor. "How extraordinary," he presently exclaimed, "that we should never have
known!"She gave a wan smile which seemed to Stransom stranger even than the fact itself.
"I never, never spoke of him."He looked again about the room. "Why then, if 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's, every 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 silent, and with the full effect of his presence all about them
it almost startled her guest to hear no protest escape her. She accepted his words, he
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 than, in that little chamber of
remembrance and homage, to 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 new, Stransom after a minute
broke out: "Good God, how he must have used YOU!"She dropped his hand at this, got
up and, moving across the room, made straight a small picture to which, on examining it, he
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've
done 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 made, to his sense, for the woman
before him, an immense, an absolutely naked confession; which was presently, suddenly
blushing red and changing her place again, what 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 asked, smiling 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 answer, and 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?""How, if I hadn't, could 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's, if 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 then, even 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 bond, at 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 know, I see what I've been living with for years,"
Stransom went on very gently.She looked at him with a larger allowance, doing this
gentleness justice. "How can I then, on this new knowledge of my own, ask you to continue
to live with it?""I set up my altar, with its multiplied meanings," Stransom began; but she
quietly interrupted him."You set up your altar, and when I wanted one most I found it
magnificently ready. I used it with the gratitude I've always shown you, for I knew it from of
old to be dedicated to Death. I told you long ago that my Dead weren't many. Yours
were, but 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. "That, as you say, I perfectly knew, and 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 Stransom, in spite of his resistance, that it really was,
and the prospect stretched grey and void before him. All he could say, however, was: "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 changed, as you
say, is that on making the discovery I find he never has had it. That makes MY attitude" -
she paused as thinking how to express it, then said simply - "all wrong.""Come once
again," he pleaded."Will you give him his candle?" she asked.He waited, but 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 which, in the agitation of everything that had opened out to him, he 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 express, no attenuation to propose. But he only met her
great lamenting eyes, in which indeed he read that she was as sorry for him as for any one
else. This made him say: "At least, in any case, I may see you here.""Oh yes, come if you
like. But I don't think it will do."He looked round the room once more, knowing how little he
was sure it would do. He felt also stricken and more and more cold, and 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
doorway, and 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 you, and
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-step, and 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 door, shutting him out.CHAPTER VIII.HE had ruthlessly abandoned
her - that of course was what he had done. Stransom made it all out in solitude, at leisure,
fitting 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
affairs, and 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 her, and 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 Hague, of all men in the
world, had more or less fashioned. Such as she sat there to-day she was ineffaceably
stamped with him. Beneficent, blameless as Stransom held her, he couldn't rid himself of
the sense that he had been, as who should say, swindled. She had imposed upon him
hugely, though 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 only, as the end of it, more troubled. He imagined, recalled,
reconstituted, figured 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 spirit, through
the whole strangeness, finer than his own to the very degree in which she might have been,
in which she certainly had been, more wronged. A women, when wronged, was always
more wronged than a man, and 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 hands, to 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 place,
but nothing could be clearer than that she had ended by accusing herself. She absolved
him at every point, she adored her very wounds. The passion by which he had profited
had rushed back after its ebb, and now the tide of tenderness, arrested for ever at flood,
was 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
silence, but 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 ebbed, not flowed; if he had "forgiven" Acton Hague, that forgiveness was a
motive with a broken spring. The very fact of her appeal for a material sign, a 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 hard, but an
exorbitant article might easily render him so. He moved round and round this one, but 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 week, but when at last he again called this conviction was
cruelly confirmed. In the interval he had kept away from the church, and 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 him, the 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
reality, to 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 estranged, but 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 sadness, begging him not to
waste his breath on the impossible, the 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 know, and 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 gentle, grateful, resigned; but this was only the form of a
deep immoveability. He saw he should never more cross the threshold of the second
room, and 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 reminders, but
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 better, had liked her in greater freedom, when they merely
walked together or kneeled together. Now they only pretended; before they had been
nobly sincere. They began to try their walks again, but it proved a lame imitation, for these
things, from the first, beginning 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. Stransom,
besides, now 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 monotonous, making no
mystery of his remonstrance and no secret of his predicament. Her response, whatever it
was, always came to the same thing - an implied invitation to him to judge, if he spoke of
predicaments, of how much comfort she had in hers. For him indeed was no comfort even
in complaint, since 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
matter, and never so much between them as when they were face to face. Then Stransom,
while still wanting to banish him, had the strangest sense of striving for an ease that would
involve having accepted him. Deeply disconcerted by what he knew, he 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 quarrel, it 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 himself, denounced himself, asked
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 eyes, only 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 nothing, she 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 himself, as he believed,
that 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 justice,
knowing of his denial without having known Hague, should 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 ties, of his obligations
and appearances, not to say enough of his general character, to 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 solution, especially 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 days, and she had responded with
a frankness qualified only by a courteous reluctance, a reluctance that touched him, to linger
on the question of his death. She had then practically accepted the charge, suffered 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 tenderer, for it expressed the
compassion of her own sense that he was abandoned. Her terms, however, remained the
same, and 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 future, but she missed it most, because 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 standing, and 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.Practically, at the end of six months, he had renounced the friendship
once so charming and comforting. His privation had two faces, and 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 more, one
more - only just one." Certainly he was going down; he often felt it when he caught himself,
over his work, staring 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 melancholy, and his
melancholy that of the conviction that his health had quite failed. His altar moreover had
ceased to exist; his chapel, in 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 them, since 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 place, and 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 presence, her presence, their 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 there, as he had left them, in their
tall radiance, the bright cluster that had already made him, on occasions when he was willing
to compare small things with great, liken them to a group of sea-lights on the edge of the
ocean of life. It was a relief to him, after a while, as he sat there, to feel they had still a virtue.
He was more and more easily tired, and 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 again, returned several times, and finally, during six months, haunted
the place with a renewal of frequency and a strain of impatience. In winter the church was
unwarmed and exposure to cold forbidden him, but 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 churches,
there were other altars, there 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 argued, but 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 regular, he found a
sharper and sharper pang in the imagination of her darkness; for never so much as in these
weeks had his rites been real, never had his gathered company seemed so to respond
and even to invite. He lost himself in the large lustre, which 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 passed, among the tall tapers, from tier to tier, from fire
to fire, from name to name, from the white intensity of one clear emblem, of one saved soul,
to another. It was in the quiet sense of having saved his souls that his deep strange instinct
rejoiced. This was no dim theological rescue, no boon of a contingent world; they were
saved better than faith or works could save them, saved for the warm world they had shrunk
from dying to, for actuality, for continuity, for the certainty of human remembrance.By this
time he had survived all his friends; the last straight flame was three years old, there was no
one to add to the list. Over and over he called his roll, and it appeared to him compact and
complete. Where should he put in another, where, if there were no other objection, would it
stand in its place in the rank? He reflected, with a want of sincerity of which he was quite
conscious, that it would be difficult to determine that place. More and more, besides, face to
face with his little legion, over endless histories, handling 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 companions, his 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
was, however, himself 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 them, that plea
for just one more. There came a day when, for simple exhaustion, if symmetry should
demand just one he was ready so far to meet symmetry. Symmetry was harmony, and
the idea of harmony began to haunt him; he said to himself that harmony was of course
everything. He took, in fancy, his composition to pieces, redistributing it into other lines,
making other juxtapositions and contrasts. He shifted this and that candle, he made the
spaces different, he effaced the disfigurement of a possible gap. There were subtle and
complex relations, a scheme of cross-reference, and 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. Finally, in this way, he arrived at a conception of
the total, the ideal, which left a clear opportunity for just another figure. "Just one more - to
round it off; just one more, just one," continued to hum in his head. There was a strange
confusion in the thought, for 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 him, since they only mattered to the
living? Even as one of the Dead what would his altar matter to him, since 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 bed, and 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 so, he drove to see the
lady who had come to ask about him. She was not at home; but this gave him the
opportunity, before his strength should fall again, to take his way to the church. He entered
it alone; he had declined, in a happy manner he possessed of being able to decline
effectively, the company of his servant or of a nurse. He knew now perfectly what these
good people thought; they had discovered his clandestine connexion, the magnet that had
drawn him for so many years, and 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 weakness, his 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; then, with the failing belief in the power, the very desire to
move gradually left him. He had come, as he always came, to lose himself; the fields of
light were still there to stray in; only this time, in straying, he would never come back. He
had given himself to his Dead, and 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 unusually, strangely splendid, but the
one that always drew him most had an unprecedented lustre. It was the central voice of the
choir, the glowing heart of the brightness, and on this occasion it seemed to expand, to
spread great wings of flame. The whole altar flared - dazzling and blinding; but the source
of the vast radiance burned clearer than the rest, gathering itself into form, and the form was
human beauty and human charity, was 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 done, to make a last appeal. This idea gave him strength for
an effort; he rose to his feet with a movement that made him turn, supporting himself by the
back of a bench. Behind him was a prostrate figure, a figure he had seen before; a woman
in deep mourning, bowed in grief or in prayer. He had seen her in other days - the first time
of his entrance there, and he now slightly wavered, looking 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
too, I think. I was ill when I came, but the sight of you does wonders." He held her hands,
which steadied and quickened him. "I've something to tell you.""Don't tell me!" she tenderly
pleaded; "let me tell you. This afternoon, by a miracle, the sweetest of miracles, the sense
of our difference left me. I was out - I was near, thinking, wandering alone, when, on the
spot, something changed in my heart. It's my confession - there it is. To come back, to
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 explanation, she looked with eyes that reflected all
its splendour at the magnificence of their altar."They're here for you," Stransom said, "they're
present to-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 supplication, and while the alarm deepened in her eyes she disengaged one of
her hands and passed an arm round him to support him better, to help him to sink into a
seat.He let himself go, resting on her; he dropped upon the bench and she fell on her
knees beside him, his own arm round her shoulder. So he remained an instant, staring up at
his shrine. "They say there's a gap in the array - they say it's not full, complete. Just one
more," he went on, softly - "isn't that what you wanted? Yes, one more, one more.""Ah no
more - no more!" she wailed, as with a quick new horror of it, under her breath."Yes, one
more," he repeated, simply; "just one!" And with 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 happen, for his face had the whiteness of death.