CHAPTER II.
Mrs. Boyce received Marcella's news with more sympathy than her daughterhad dared to hope for, and she made no remark upon Aldous himself andhis visit, for which Marcella was grateful to her.
As they left the dining-room, after their short evening meal, to go upto Mr. Boyce, Marcella detained her mother an instant.
"Mamma, will you please not tell papa that--that Lord Maxwell came herethis afternoon? And will you explain to him why I am going thereto-morrow?"
Mrs. Boyce's fair cheek flushed. Marcella saw that she understood.
"If I were you, I should not let your father talk to you any more aboutthose things," she said with a certain proud impatience.
"If I can help it!" exclaimed Marcella. "Will you tell him,mamma,--about Mr. Hallin?--and how good he has been to me?"
Then her voice failed her, and, hurriedly leaving her mother at the topof the stairs, she went away by herself to struggle with a grief andsmart almost unbearable.
That night passed quietly at the Court. Hallin was at intervals slightlydelirious, but less so than the night before; and in the early morningthe young doctor, who had sat up with him, reported him to Aldous ascalmer and a little stronger. But the heart mischief was hopeless, andmight bring the bruised life to an end at any moment.
He could not, however, be kept in bed, owing to restlessness anddifficulty of breathing, and by midday he was in Aldous's sitting-room,drawn close to the window, that he might delight his eyes with the widerange of wood and plain that it commanded. After a very wet September,the October days were now following each other in a settled and sunnypeace. The great woods of the Chilterns, just yellowing towards thatfull golden moment--short, like all perfection,--which only beechesknow, rolled down the hill-slopes to the plain, their curving lines cuthere and there by straight fir stems, drawn clear and dark on the palebackground of sky and lowland. In the park, immediately below thewindow, groups of wild cherry and of a slender-leaved maple made spotsof "flame and amethyst" on the smooth falling lawns; the deer wanderedand fed, and the squirrels were playing and feasting among the beechnuts.
Since Aldous and his poor sister had brought him home from the BethnalGreen hall in which the Land Reform Conference had been held, Hallin hadspoken little, except in delirium, and that little had been marked bydeep and painful depression. But this morning, when Aldous was summonedby the nurse, and found him propped up by the window, in front of thegreat view, he saw gracious signs of change. Death, indeed, already inpossession, looked from the blue eyes so plainly that Aldous, on hisfirst entrance, had need of all his own strength of will to keep hiscomposure. But with the certainty of that great release, and with theabandonment of all physical and mental struggle--the struggle of alifetime--Hallin seemed to-day to have recovered something of hischaracteristic serenity and blitheness--the temper which had made himthe leader of his Oxford contemporaries, and the dear comrade of hisfriend's life.
When Aldous came in, Hallin smiled and lifted a feeble hand towards thepark and the woods.
"Could it have greeted me more kindly," he said, in his whisperingvoice, "for the end?"
Aldous sat down beside him, pressing his hand, and there was silencetill Hallin spoke again.
"You will keep this sitting-room, Aldous?"
"Always."
"I am glad. I have known you in it so long. What good talks we have hadhere in the old hot days! I was hot, at least, and you bore with me.Land Reform--Church Reform--Wages Reform--we have threshed them all outin this room. Do you remember that night I kept you up till it was toolate to go to bed, talking over my Church plans? How full I was ofit!--the Church that was to be the people--reflecting their life, theirdifferences--governed by them--growing with them. You wouldn't join it,Aldous--our poor little Association!"
Aldous's strong lip quivered.
"Let me think of something I _did_ join in," he said.
Hallin's look shone on him with a wonderful affection.
"Was there anything else you didn't help in? I don't remember it. I'vedragged you into most things. You never minded failure. And I have nothad so much of it--not till this last. This has been failure--absoluteand complete."
But there was no darkening of expression. He sat quietly smiling.
"Do you suppose anybody who could look beyond the moment would dream ofcalling it failure?" said Aldous, with difficulty.
Hallin shook his head gently, and was silent for a little time,gathering strength and breath again.
"I ought to suffer"--he said, presently. "Last week I dreaded my ownfeeling if I should fail or break down--more than the failure itself.But since yesterday--last night--I have no more regrets. I see that mypower is gone--that if I were to live I could no longer carry on thebattle--or my old life. I am out of touch. Those whom I love and wouldserve, put me aside. Those who invite me, I do not care to join. So Idrop--into the gulf--and the pageant rushes on. But the curious thing isnow--I have no suffering. And as to the future--do you remember Jowettin the Introduction to the Phaedo--"
He feebly pointed to a book beside him, which Aldous took up. Hallinguided him and he read--
"_Most persons when the last hour comes are resigned to the order ofnature and the will of God. They are not thinking of Dante's 'Inferno'or 'Paradiso,' or of the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' Heaven and Hell are notrealities to them, but words or ideas_--_the outward symbols of somegreat mystery, they hardly know what_."
"It is so with me," said Hallin, smiling, as, at his gesture, Aldouslaid the book aside; "yet not quite. To my _mind_, that mystery indeedis all unknown and dark--but to the heart it seems unveiled--with theheart, I see."
A little later Aldous was startled to hear him say, very clearly andquickly:
"Do you remember that this is the fifth of October?"
Aldous drew his chair closer, that he might not raise his voice.
"Yes, Ned."
"Two years, wasn't it, to-day? Will you forgive me if I speak of her?"
"You shall say anything you will."
"Did you notice that piece of news I sent you, in my last letter toGeneva? But of course you did. Did it please you?"
"Yes, I was glad of it," said Aldous, after a pause, "extremely glad. Ithought she had escaped a great danger."
Hallin studied his face closely.
"She is free, Aldous--and she is a noble creature--she has learnt fromlife--and from death--this last two years. And--you still love her. Isit right to make no more effort?"
Aldous saw the perspiration standing on the wasted brow--would havegiven the world to be able to content or cheer him--yet would not, forthe world, at such a moment be false to his own feeling or deceive hisquestioner.
"I think it is right," he said deliberately, "--for a good many reasons,Edward. In the first place I have not the smallest cause--not thefraction of a cause--to suppose that I could occupy with her now anyother ground than that I occupied two years ago. She has been kind andfriendly to me--on the whole--since we met in London. She has evenexpressed regret for last year--meaning, of course, as I understood, forthe pain and trouble that may be said to have come from her not knowingher own mind. She wished that we should be friends. And"--he turned hishead away--"no doubt I could be, in time.... But, you see--in all that,there is nothing whatever to bring me forward again. My fatal mistakelast year, I think now, lay in my accepting what she gave me--acceptingit so readily, so graspingly even. That was my fault, my blindness,and--it was as unjust to her--as it was hopeless for myself. For hers isa nature"--his eyes came back to his friend; his voice took a new forceand energy--"which, in love at any rate, will give all or nothing--andwill never be happy itself, or bring happiness, till it gives all. Thatis what last year taught me. So that even if she--out of kindness orremorse for giving pain--were willing to renew the old tie--I should beher worst enemy and my own if I took a single step towards it. Marriageon such terms as I was thankful for last year, would be humiliation tome, and bring no gain to her. It will never serve
a man with her"--hisvoice broke into emotion--"that he should make no claims! Let him claimthe uttermost far-thing--her whole self. If she gives it, _then_ he mayknow what love means!"
Hallin had listened intently. At Aldous's last words his expressionshowed pain and perplexity. His mind was full of vague impressions,memories, which seemed to argue with and dispute one of the chief thingsAldous had been saying. But they were not definite enough to be putforward. His sensitive chivalrous sense, even in this extreme weakness,remembered the tragic weight that attaches inevitably to dying words.Let him not do more harm than good.
He rested a little. They brought him food; and Aldous sat beside himmaking pretence to read, so that he might be encouraged to rest. Hissister came and went; so did the doctor. But when they were once morealone, Hallin put out his hand and touched his companion.
"What is it, dear Ned?"
"Only one thing more, before we leave it. Is that _all_ that standsbetween you now--the whole? You spoke to me once in the summer offeeling _angry_, more angry than you could have believed. Of course, Ifelt the same. But just now you spoke of its all being your fault. Isthere anything changed in your mind?"
Aldous hesitated. It was extraordinarily painful to him to speak of thepast, and it troubled him that at such a moment it should troubleHallin.
"There is nothing changed, Ned, except that perhaps time makes _some_difference always. I don't want now"--he tried to smile--"as I did then,to make anybody else suffer for my suffering. But perhaps I marvel evenmore than I did at first, that--that--she could have allowed some thingsto happen as she did!"
The tone was firm and vibrating; and, in speaking, the whole face haddeveloped a strong animation most passionate and human.
Hallin sighed.
"I often think," he said, "that she was extraordinarily immature--muchmore immature than most girls of that age--as to feeling. It was reallythe brain that was alive."
Aldous silently assented; so much so that Hallin repented himself.
"But not now," he said, in his eager dying whisper; "not now. The plantis growing full and tall, into the richest life."
Aldous took the wasted hand tenderly in his own. There was somethinginexpressibly touching in this last wrestle of Hallin's affection withanother's grief. But it filled Aldous with a kind of remorse, and withthe longing to free him from that, as from every other burden, in theselast precious hours of life. And at last he succeeded, as he thought, indrawing his mind away from it. They passed to other things. Hallin,indeed, talked very little more during the day. He was very restless andweak, but not in much positive suffering. Aldous read to him atintervals, from Isaiah or Plato, the bright sleepless eyes followingevery word.
At last the light began to sink. The sunset flooded in from theBerkshire uplands and the far Oxford plain, and lay in gold and purpleon the falling woods and the green stretches of the park. The distantedges of hill were extraordinarily luminous and clear, and Aldous,looking into the west with the eye of one to whom every spot and linewere familiar landmarks, could almost fancy he saw beyond the invisibleriver, the hill, the "lovely tree against the western sky," which keepfor ever the memory of one with whose destiny it had often seemed to himthat Hallin's had something in common. To him, as to Thyrsis, the sameearly joy, the same "happy quest," the same "fugitive and graciouslight" for guide and beacon, that--
does not come with houses or with gold, With place, with honour and a flattering crew;
and to him, too, the same tasked pipe and tired throat, the samestruggle with the "life of men unblest," the same impatient tryst withdeath.
The lovely lines ran dirge-like in his head, as he sat, sunk in grief,beside his friend. Hallin did not speak; but his eye took note of everychange of light, of every darkening tone, as the quiet English scenewith its villages, churches, and woods, withdrew itself plane by planeinto the evening haze. His soul followed the quiet deer, the homingbirds, loosening itself gently the while from pain and from desire,saying farewell to country, to the poor, to the work left undone, andthe hopes unrealised--to everything except to love.
It had just struck six when he bent forward to the window beneath whichran the wide front terrace.
"That was her step!" he said, while his face lit up, "will you bring herhere?"
* * * * *
Marcella rang the bell at the Court with a fast beating heart. The oldbutler who came gave what her shrinking sense thought a forbiddinganswer to her shy greeting of him, and led her first into thedrawing-room. A small figure in deep black rose from a distant chair andcame forward stiffly. Marcella found herself shaking hands with MissRaeburn.
"Will you sit and rest a little before you go upstairs?" said that ladywith careful politeness, "or shall I send word at once? He is hardlyworse--but as ill as he can be."
"I am not the least tired," said Marcella, and Miss Raeburn rang.
"Tell his lordship, please, that Miss Boyce is here."
The title jarred and hurt Marcella's ear. But she had scarcely time tocatch it before Aldous entered, a little bent, as it seemed to her, fromhis tall erectness, and speaking with an extreme quietness, evenmonotony of manner.
"He is waiting for you--will you come at once?"
He led her up the central staircase and along the familiar passages,walking silently a little in front of her. They passed the long line ofCaroline and Jacobean portraits in the upper gallery, till just outsidehis own door Aldous paused.
"He ought not to talk long," he said, hesitating, "but you will know--ofcourse--better than any of us."
"I will watch him," she said, almost inaudibly, and he gently opened thedoor and let her pass, shutting it behind her.
The nurse, who was sitting beside her patient, got up as Marcellaentered, and pointed her to a low chair on his further side. SusieHallin rose too, and kissed the new-comer hurriedly, absently, withouta word, lest she should sob. Then she and the nurse disappeared throughan inner door. The evening light was still freely admitted; and therewere some candles. By the help of both she could only see himindistinctly. But in her own mind, as she sat down, she determined thathe had not even days to live.
Yet as she bent over him she saw a playful gleam on the cavernous face.
"You won't scold me?" said the changed voice--"you did warn me--you andSusie--but--I was obstinate. It was best so!"
She pressed her lips to his hand and was answered by a faint pressurefrom the cold fingers.
"If I could have been there!" she murmured.
"No--I am thankful you were not. And I must not think of it--or of anytrouble. Aldous is very bitter--but he will take comfort by and by--hewill see it--and them--more justly. They meant me no unkindness. Theywere full of an idea, as I was. When I came back to myself--first--allwas despair. I was in a blank horror of myself and life. Now it hasgone--I don't know how. It is not of my own will--some hand has lifted aweight. I seem to float--without pain."
He closed his eyes, gathering strength again in the interval, by astrong effort of will--calling up in the dimming brain what he had tosay. She meanwhile, spoke to him in a low voice, mainly to prevent histalking, telling him of her father, of her mother's strain ofnursing--of herself--she hardly knew what. Hew grotesque to be givinghim these little bits of news about strangers--to him, this hovering,consecrated soul, on the brink of the great secret!
In the intervals, while he was still silent, she could not sometimesprevent the pulse of her own life from stirring. Her eye wandered roundthe room--Aldous's familiar room. There, on the writing-table with itsload of letters and books, stood the photograph of Hallin; another, herown, used to stand beside it; it was solitary now.
Otherwise, all was just as it had been--flowers, books, newspapers--thesigns of familiar occupation, the hundred small details of character andpersonality which in estrangement take to themselves such a smartingsignificance for the sad and craving heart. The date--theanniversary--echoed in her mind.
Then, with a r
ush of remorseful pain, her thoughts came back to thepresent and to Hallin. At the same moment she saw that his eyes wereopen, and fixed upon her with a certain anxiety and expectancy. He madea movement as though to draw her towards him; and she stooped to him.
"I feel," he said, "as though my strength were leaving me fast. Let meask you one question--because of my love for you--and _him_. I havefancied--of late--things were changed. Can you tell me--will you?--or isit unfair?"--the words had all their bright, natural intonation--"Isyour heart--still where it was?--or, could you ever--undo the past--"
He held her fast, grasping the hand she had given him with unconsciousforce. She had looked up startled, her lip trembling like a child's.Then she dropped her head against the arm of her chair, as though shecould not speak.
He moved restlessly, and sighed.
"I should not," he said to himself; "I should not--it was wrong. Thedying are tyrannous."
He even began a word of sweet apology. But she shook her head.
"Don't!" she said, struggling with herself; "don't say that! It would dome good to speak--to you--"
An exquisite smile dawned on Hallin's face.
"Then!"--he said--"confess!"
* * * * *
A few minutes later they were still sitting together. She stronglywished to go; but he would not yet allow it. His face was full of amystical joy--a living faith, which must somehow communicate itself inone last sacramental effort.
"How strange that you--and I--and he--should have been so mixed togetherin this queer life. Now I seem to regret nothing--I _hope_ everything.One more little testimony let me bear!--the last. We disappear one byone--into the dark--but each may throw his comrades--a token--before hegoes. You have been in much trouble of mind and spirit--I have seen it.Take my poor witness. There is one clue, one only--_goodness_--_thesurrendered will_. Everything is there--all faith--all religion--allhope for rich or poor.--Whether we feel our way through consciously tothe Will--that asks our will--matters little. Aldous and I have differedmuch on this--in words--never at heart! I could use words, symbols hecannot--and they have given me peace. But half my best life I owe tohim."
At this he made a long pause--but, still, through that weak grasp,refusing to let her go--till all was said. Day was almost gone; thestars had come out over the purple dusk of the park.
"That Will--we reach--through duty and pain," he whispered at last, sofaintly she could hardly hear him, "is the root, the source. It leads usin living--it--carries us in death. But our weakness and vagueness--wanthelp--want the human life and voice--to lean on--to drink from. WeChristians--are orphans--without Christ! There again--what does itmatter what we think--_about_ him--if only we think--_of_ him. In _one_such life are all mysteries, and all knowledge--and our fathers havechosen for us--"
The insistent voice sank lower and lower into final silence--though thelips still moved. The eyelids too fell. Miss Hallin and the nurse camein. Marcella rose and stood for one passionate instant looking down uponhim. Then, with a pressure of the hand to the sister beside her, shestole out. Her one prayer was that she might see and meet no one. Sosoft was her step that even the watching Aldous did not hear her. Shelifted the heavy latch of the outer door without the smallest noise, andfound herself alone in the starlight.
* * * * *
After Marcella left him, Hallin remained for some hours in what seemedto those about him a feverish trance. He did not sleep, but he showed nosign of responsive consciousness. In reality his mind all through wasfull of the most vivid though incoherent images and sensations. But hecould no longer distinguish between them and the figures and movementsof the real people in his room. Each passed into and intermingled withthe other. In some vague, eager way he seemed all the time to be waitingor seeking for Aldous. There was the haunting impression of some word tosay--some final thing to do--which would not let him rest. But somethingseemed always to imprison him, to hold him back, and the veil betweenhim and the real Aldous watching beside him grew ever denser.
At night they made no effort to move him from the couch and thehalf-sitting posture in which he had passed the day. Death had come toonear. His sister and Aldous and the young doctor who had brought himfrom London watched with him. The curtains were drawn back from both thewindows, and in the clearness of the first autumnal frost a crescentmoon hung above the woods, the silvery lawns, the plain.
Not long after midnight Hallin seemed to himself to wake, full ofpurpose and of strength. He spoke, as he thought, to Aldous, asking tobe alone with him. But Aldous did not move; that sad watching gaze ofhis showed no change. Then Hallin suffered a sudden sharp spasm ofanguish and of struggle. Three words to say--only three words; but thosehe _must_ say! He tried again, but Aldous's dumb grief still satmotionless. Then the thought leapt in the ebbing sense, "Speech is gone;I shall speak no more!"
It brought with it a stab, a quick revolt. But something checked both,and in a final offering of the soul, Hallin gave up his last desire.
What Aldous saw was only that the dying man opened his hand as though itasked for that of his friend. He placed his own within those seekingfingers, and Hallin's latest movement--which death stopped half-way--wasto raise it to his lips.
* * * * *
So Marcella's confession--made in the abandonment, the blind passionatetrust, of a supreme moment--bore no fruit. It went with Hallin to thegrave.