The Altar of the Dead.........................................................................................................................................1

Henry James .............................................................................................................................................1

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 marriagemorn.

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 weddingday 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 fiftyfive 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

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

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 shopfront 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

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

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. Today 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

rollcall 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

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.

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

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 seacaves, 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 milestones. 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

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 blackrobed, 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

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

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

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

reentered 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

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

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 shopfronts; 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

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

"Oh no," Stransom replied, "there is a great thing wanting for that! The chapel will never be full till a candle

is set up before which all the others will pale. It will be the tallest candle of all."

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

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,

semidetached 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 clockface 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 drawingroom, 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

"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 watercolours, 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 coloured at this and for a moment her answer failed; her eyes embraced everything in the place, and a

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

She gave a wan smile which seemed to Stransom stranger even than the fact itself. "I never, never spoke of

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

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

"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

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?"

She visibly winced at the deep but unintended irony of this; but even while she did so she panted quickly:

"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.

"Ah it's not true you've NOT forgiven him!" she wailed with a passion that startled him.

He turned as cold as he had turned that night he read the man's death. "You mean that we meet no more?"

He stood aghast at this snap of their great bond, at the renouncement that rang out in the word she so

She waited in all the sharpness of a trouble that for the first time since he had known her made her splendidly

"I didn't understand before only because I didn't know. Now that I know, I see what I've been living with for

She looked at him with a larger allowance, doing this gentleness justice. "How can I then, on this new

"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

"We had simply different intentions," he returned. "That, as you say, I perfectly knew, and I don't see why

"That's because you're generous you can imagine and think. But the spell is broken."

It seemed to poor Stransom, in spite of his resistance, that it really was, and the prospect stretched grey and

void before him. All he could say, however, was: "I hope you'll try before you give up."

"If I had known you had ever known him I should have taken for granted he had his candle," she presently

answered. "What's changed, as you say, is that on making the discovery I find he never has had it. That

makes MY attitude" she paused as thinking how to express it, then said simply "all wrong."

He waited, but only because it would sound ungracious; not because of a doubt of his feeling. "I can't do

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

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

"Because my aunt would have seen you, and I should have had to tell her how I came to know you."

"It would have entailed other explanations; there would at any rate have been that danger."

He was now on the lower doorstep, and his hostess held the door halfclosed behind him. Through what

remained of the opening he saw her framed face. He made a supreme appeal. "What DID he do to you?"

"It would have come out SHE would have told you. That fear at my heart that was my reason!" And she

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

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 today 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

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

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

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 today 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

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 sealights 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

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 crossreference, 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

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 faroff 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

"God sent me too, I think. I was ill when I came, but the sight of you does wonders." He held her hands,

"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

"They're here for you," Stransom said, "they're present tonight 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?

"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

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,

"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