The Altar of the Dead
Henry James

Transcribed from the 1916 Martin Secker edition by David Price,



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


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

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.


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

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.


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

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

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.


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

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.


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.


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

"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

"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

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

"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.

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

"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

"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

"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


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

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.


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

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

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

"You're very ill--you shouldn't be here," she urged in anxious

"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.


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