 CHAPTER 1 He had a mortal dislike, poor Stransom, to lean anniversaries and loved them still less when they made a pretense 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 the 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-mourn. 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 forever 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 on a London suburb, apart 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 Stranson 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 hadn't no organized service, no reserved place, no honor, 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 Stranson'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 organized the charity. Quite how it had risen you probably never would 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 and 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 anyone who should feel the need of them. The poorest could build such temples of the spirit, could make them blaze with candles and smoke with incense, make them flush with pictures and flowers. The cost in the common phrase of keeping them up fell wholly on the generous heart. 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 jeweler whose diamonds and sapphires seemed to laugh and flashes like high notes of sound, with a mere joy of knowing how much more they were worth than most of the dingy pedestrian staring at them from the other side of the pain. 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 to 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 a lady of some precious object in the window. Stransom had no sooner recognized 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 suffice 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, behavior the effect of which was at first only to leave Stransom staring, staring back across the months at the different face. The holy other face, the poor man had shown them 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 companions to grasp the hand of the older friend. He colored 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 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 other woman but one. This lady had a face that shone as publicly as the jeweler's window, and in the happy candor 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 reason Stransom could judge his friend to know perfectly that he knew. The happy pair had just arrived from America, and Stransom had and needed to be told this to guess the nationality of the lady. Somehow it deepened the foolish air that her husband's confused cordiology 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 a little change indeed. He had brought the little change back. It was a 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, instead, and she begged Mr. Stransom to come with them, to help decide. He thanked her, opening his watch and pleading and engaged him for which he was already late, and they parted while she shrieked into the fog. Mind you now, come to see me right away! Creston had had the delicacy not to suggest that, and Stransom hoped it hurt him somewhere to hear her scream it to all the echoes. He felt quite determined as he walked away, never in his life to go near her. She was perhaps a human being, but Creston oughtn't to have shown her without precautions, oughtn't indeed to have shown her at all. His precautions should have been those of a forger or murderer, and the people at home would never had mentioned extradition. This was a wife of 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 Cranston 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 everyone 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 everyone 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 it into the world a child of his bed. She had only to submit to her fate to have ere the grass was green and aggrave, 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 and 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 had 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 death of Sir Acton Haig 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 Haig had died in the bleak honor 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 interest had been private, intensely so, but the action taken by Haig 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 Haig and measure exactly how much he himself could resemble a stone. He went cold suddenly and horribly cold to bed. CHAPTER III IN THE AFTERNOON IN THE GREAT GRACE SEBURB, 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 DESERD IN WHICH NO CIRCLEING CADMAN HOVERD OVER POSSIBLE PRAY. 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 depths 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, recognizing 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 leaven 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 strensam there was hospitality in the thick, sweet air. Was it only the savor 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 center. He presently ceased to feel intrusive, gaining at last even a sense of community, with the only worshipper in his neighborhood, the somber 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 wrapped in prostration. After a few moments he shifted his seat. It was almost indelicate to be so aware of her, but strensam 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 pumps, 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 scroll-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 rogue 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 rights and associate it with nothing profane. He would simply take it as it should be given up to him and make it a master piece of splendor 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 and as special the place would become to him in the intermissions of toil and the dusk of afternoons. How rich an 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 our 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 rights more public, yet certainly esoteric that he had 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 ascent 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 inquiry, 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 performed something of the patience of a pilgrimage, but the time he gave to his devotion came to seem to him more a contribution to his other interests than a betrayal of them. Even a loaded life might be easier when one had added a new necessity to it. How much easier was probably never guessed by those who simply knew there were hours when he disappeared, and for many of whom there was a vulgar reading of what they used to call his plunges. These plunges were into depths quieter than the deep sea caves, and the habit had at the end of a year or two become the one it would have cost him most to relinquish. Now they had really his dead, something that was indefensibly theirs, and he liked to think that they might in cases be the dead of others as well as that the dead of others might be invoked there under the protection of what he had done. Whoever bent a knee on the carpet he had laid down appeared to him to act in the spirit of his intention. Each of his lights had a name for him, and from time to time a new light was kindled. This was what he had fundamentally agreed for, that there should always be room for them all. What those who passed or lingered saw was simply the most resplendent of the altars called suddenly into vivid usefulness, with a quiet, elderly man, for whom it evidently had a fascination, often seated there in a maze or a dose, 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 and 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 oneself 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 sick at present, for Strasim had entered that dark defile of our earthly descent in which someone 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 color 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 connection 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 connection could only be an improvement. It brought them instantly within reach. Of course there were gaps in the constellation, for Creston 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 Haig, of which he inveterately tried to rid himself, for Acton Haig no flame could ever rise on any altar of his. End of Chapter 3. 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 worshiper, at least as frequent as himself. Others of the fateful, 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 which had 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 of 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 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 worshiped side by side so often that there were moments when he wished he might be sure so straightened that prospects stretch away of growing old together in their rights. She was younger than he, but she looked as if her dead were at least as numerous as his candles. She had no color, 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 strand some that she had known more kinds of troubles than one. He had a great love of music and little time for the joy of it, but occasionally, when work-a-day noises were muffled by Saturday afternoons, he 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 Hall, he became aware after he had seated himself that the lady he had so often seen at church was in the place next to him, and was evidently alone, as he also this time happened to be. She was at first too absorbed in the consideration of the program 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 recognize you. Yet in spite of this admission of long acquaintance, it was the first he had seen 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 handsome 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 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 had just made the difference. They had listened together to Beethoven and Schumann. They had talked in the pauses, and at the end, one 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 that 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 they grew up in him an absurd desire to put it to some better test. Save, and so far as some other poor chance might help him, such a test could be only to meet her a fresh at church. Left to himself, he would have gone to church that very afternoon, just for the curiosity of seeing if he should find her there. But he wasn't left to himself, a fact he discovered quite at the last after he had virtually made up his mind to go. The influence that kept him away really revealed to him how little to himself his dead ever left him. He went only for them, for nothing else in the world. The force of this revulsion kept him away ten days. He hated to connect the place with anything but his offices or to give a glimpse of the curiosity that had been on the point of moving him. It was absurd to weave a tangle about a manor 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 the familiar security. At the last, however, he asked himself if he was to stay away forever 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 sacristain who would, of course, immediately have recognized his description of her whether she had been seen at other hours. His delicacy had kept him from asking any question about her at any time, and it was exactly the same virtue that had left him so free to be decently civil to her at the concert. This happy advantage now serves 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 adjourned 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 neighborhood 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 connection with whom she spoke of the engrossment of humdrum duties and regular occupations. She wasn't the morning-knees 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 divorce duchess, she might have been an old maid who taught the harp. CHAPTER V. OF THE ALTER OF THE DEAD by Henry James. 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 said 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 likely 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 strandsome 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, which much greater than his because while she had only given him a worshipper, he had given her a splendid temple. Once she said she pitted 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, coloring 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 at 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 would pale. It will be the tallest candle of all. Her mild wonder rested on him. What candle do you mean? I mean dear lady, my own. He had learned after a long time that she earned her 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. I'd be quest 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. End of chapter five. Chapter number six of the Alter of the Dead by Henry James. This Liberavox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Larry Kaplan. 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 more 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 an 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 quaved out a greeting that showed the measure she took He had a strange sense of having come for something in particular. Strange because literally there was nothing particular between them. Nothing saved that they were at one on their great point which had so 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 candor 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 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 marine. 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 strands him 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 hand forth only one to consume what had formerly been made to suffice for two. This was a joy to strand some because it had hitherto been equally impossible for him either to offer her presence 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 in ghosts of flowers and bombed. But a moment suffice to show him that 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. In another moment he was staring at the picture in stupefaction and with a sense that some sound had broken from him. He was further conscious that he showed his companion a white face when he turned around on her gasping actin' haig. 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 colored it 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 strands him understood, while the room heaped like the cabin of a ship, and its whole contents cried out with him, that it was a museum in his honor, 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 actin' haig 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 might and resented as much as she'd have liked. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of The Alter of the Dead by Henry James. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dorelene Kaplan. 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 wand smile which seemed to strand some 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? May I put you that question as well? Hadn't your life also been full of him? Anyone's, everyone's life who had the wonderful experience of knowing him. I never spoke of him. Stranson added in a moment. Because he did me years ago an unforgettable 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 then. In that little chamber of remembrance and homage to see her convey with such exquisite mildness that as from Ekt and 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, Stranson 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 forgiven him. She declared. I know what you've done said Stranson. 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 and absolutely naked confession which was presently suddenly blushing red and changing her place again. What she appeared to learn he perceived in it. He got up and how you must have loved him. He cried. Women aren't like men. They can love even where they've suffered. Women are wonderful. Said Stranson. But I assure you I've forgiven him too. If I had known of anything so strange I wouldn't have brought you here. So that we might have gone on and our ignorance to the last? What do you call the last? She asked smiling still. At this he could smile back at her. You'll see when it comes. She thought of that. This is better perhaps but as we were it was good. He put her the question. Did it never happen that he spoke of me? Considering more intently she made no answer and he then knew he should have been adequately answered by her asking how often he himself had spoken of their terrible friend. Suddenly a brighter light broke in her face and an excited idea sprang to her lips in the appeal. You have forgiven him? How if I hadn't could I linger here? She visibly winced at the deep but unintended irony of this but even while she did so she panted quickly. Then in the lights on your altar? There's never a light for act and hate. She stared with a dreadful fall but he's one of your dead. He's one of the worlds 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 and 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 you've once loved are those who can hurt us most. Stranson 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. Goodbye. 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 the snap of their great bond. At the renouncement that rang out in the words 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. Stranson 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. Stranson 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 all 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 Stranson in spite of his resistance that it really was and the prospect stretched gray and void before him. All he could say however was. I hope you'll try before you give up. If I had known you had ever known him I should have taken for granted he had his candle. She presently answered. What's changed as you say is that on making the discovery I find he never has had it. That makes my attitude. She paused as thinking how to express it then said simply. All wrong. Come once again. He pleaded. Will you give him his candle? She asked. He waited but only because it would sound ungracious not because of a doubt of his feeling. I can't do that. He declared it last. Then goodbye 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 anyone 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 around 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 old wit. Why have you never let me come before? Because my aunt would have seen you and I should have had to tell her how I came to know you. And what would have been the objection to that? It would have entailed other explanations. There would at any rate have been that danger. Surely she knew you went every day to church. Stranson objected. She didn't know what I went for. Of me then she never even heard. You will think I was deceitful but I didn't need to be. He was now on the lower doorstep and his hostess held the door half closed behind him. Through what remained of the opening he saw her framed face. He made a supreme appeal. What did he do to you? It would have come out. She would have told you that fear at my heart. That was my reason and she closed the door, shutting him out. End of chapter seven. Chapter eight of The Altar of the Dead by Henry James. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Larry Kaplan. He had ruthlessly abandoned her. That of course was what he had done. Stranson 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 tenderness 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 a partner of her retrospect no accidents 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 connections was only a touch in the picture of that plasticity. Stransom had supreme reason to know so great a master could have been trusted to produce. This picture was for a while all our friends saw. He caught his breath again and again as it came over him that the woman with whom he had had for years so find a point of contact was a woman whom active Hague of all men in the world had more or less fashioned. Such as she sat there today she was inefficibly stamped with him. Beneficent, blameless, a strandsom 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 reflections. 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 he certainly had been more wronged. A woman, when wronged, was always more wrong 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. Molded 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 she had ended by accusing herself. She absolved him at every point. She adored her very wounds. The passion by which she had profited had rushed back after its ed and now the tide of tenderness arrested forever at flood was too deep even to fathom. Strasim 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 unheard 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. Strasim was soon to know himself as perversely but sharply jealous. His tide had not flowed. If he had forgiven Acton Haig, 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 himself. 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 for a week, but when at last he 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 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, if 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 an 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 rights he had established were practically an elaborate exclusion? She regretted nothing that had happened. It had been all right so long as she didn't know, and it was only that now she knew too much. That from the moment their eyes were opened, 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 deeper movability. 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 hard 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 approved 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 into rest on the return. Stransom, besides, now faltered. He couldn't walk as a bold. 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, he had vexed him that her depth of reserve should give him no opening and should have the effect of a magnanimity greater than his own. He challenged himself, denounced himself, asked himself if he were in love with her, that he should care so much what adventure 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 wisp 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 somber 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 strandsom thought, the more he made out that whatever this relation of Hague's, it could only have been a deception more or less finely practiced. Where had it come into the life that all men saw? Why had one never heard of it? Had had the frankness of honorable things? Strandsom knew enough of 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. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of The Alter of the Dead by Henry James This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dora-Leen Kaplan. 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 Haig over any other thought whatever. He had humor 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 condition 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 luster. 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 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. Nonetheless, 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 unwirmed 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 rights. 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 rights been real. Never had his gathered company seemed so to respond and even to invite. He lost himself in the large luster, which was more and more what he had from the first wish 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 tear to tear, from fire to fire, from name to name, from the white intensity of one clear emblem of one saved soul to another. It was in the quiet sense of having saved his souls that his deep, strange instinct rejoiced. This was no dim theological rescue, no boon of a contingent world. They were saved better than faith or works could save them. Saved for the warm world they had shrunk from dying to, for actuality, for continuity, for the certainty of human remembrance. By this time he had survived all his friends. The last straight flame was three years old. There was no one to add to the list. Over and over he called his role 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 the 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, his 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 infancy 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 had faced 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 set 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. Continue 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 matter to the living? Even as one of the dead, what would his altar matter to him? Since his particular dream of keeping it up had melted away. What had harmony to do with the case if his lights were all to be quenched? What he had hoped for was an instituted thing. He might perpetuate it on some other pretext, but his special meaning would have dropped. This meaning was to have lasted with the life of the one other person who understood it. In March he had an illness during which he spent a fortnight in bed, and when he revived a little, he was told of two things that had happened. One was that a lady whose name was not known to the servants, she left none, had been three times to ask about him. The other was that in his sleep and on an occasion when his mind evidently wandered, he was heard to murmur again and again. Just one more, just one. As soon as he found himself able to go out, and before the doctor in attendance had pronounced him so, he drove to see the lady who had come to ask about him. She was not at home, but this gave him the opportunity before strength should fail 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 connection, 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 connection, 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 a 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 life 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 luster. 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 Haig. It was as if Strandsum 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 to where 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 wandering and scared. He saw he had made her afraid, and quickly rising, she came straight to him with both hands out. Then you could come. God sent you. He murmured with a happy smile. You're very ill. You shouldn't be here. She urged an anxious reply. God sent me too, I think. I was ill when I came, but the sight of you does wonders. He held her hands, which steadied and quickened him. I've something to tell you. Don't tell me, she tenderly pleaded. Let me tell you, this afternoon by a miracle, the sweetest of miracles, the sense of our difference left me. I was out, I was near, thinking, wandering alone, when on the spot something changed in my heart. It's my confession, there it is, to come back, to come back on the instant. The idea gave me wings. It was as if I suddenly saw something, as if it all became possible. I could come for what you yourself came for. That was enough. So here I am. It's not for my own. That's over. But I'm here for them. And breathless, infinitely relieved by her low precipitate explanation, she looked with eyes that reflected all its splendor at the magnificence of their altar. They're here for you. Stransom said. They're present tonight as they've never been. They speak for you. Don't you see? And 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's spoken a hushed supplication. And while the alarm deepened in her eyes, she disengaged one of her hands and passed an arm around 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 around 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. Recording by Darlene and Larry Kaplan, New York City. End of The Alter of the Dead by Henry James.