In the month of November which followed Pierston was lying dangerously
ill of a fever at his house in London.
The funeral of the second Avice had happened to be on one of those
drenching afternoons of the autumn, when the raw rain flies level as the
missiles of the ancient inhabitants across the beaked promontory which
has formed the scene of this narrative, scarcely alighting except
against the upright sides of things sturdy enough to stand erect.
One person only followed the corpse into the church as chief mourner,
Jocelyn Pierston--fickle lover in the brief, faithful friend in the
long run. No means had been found of communicating with Avice before the
interment, though the death had been advertised in the local and other
papers in the hope that it might catch her eye.
So, when the pathetic procession came out of the church and moved round
into the graveyard, a hired vehicle from Budmouth was seen coming at
great speed along the open road from Top-o'-Hill. It stopped at the
churchyard gate, and a young man and woman alighted and entered, the
vehicle waiting. They glided along the path and reached Pierston's side
just as the body was deposited by the grave.
He did not turn his head. He knew it was Avice, with Henri Leverre--by
this time, he supposed, her husband. Her remorseful grief, though
silent, seemed to impregnate the atmosphere with its heaviness.
Perceiving that they had not expected him to be there Pierston edged
back; and when the service was over he kept still further aloof, an act
of considerateness which she seemed to appreciate.
Thus, by his own contrivance, neither Avice nor the young man held
communication with Jocelyn by word or by sign. After the burial they
returned as they had come.
It was supposed that his exposure that day in the bleakest churchyard
in Wessex, telling upon a distracted mental and bodily condition, had
thrown Pierston into the chill and fever which held him swaying for
weeks between life and death shortly after his return to town. When he
had passed the crisis, and began to know again that there was such a
state as mental equilibrium and physical calm, he heard a whispered
conversation going on around him, and the touch of footsteps on the
carpet. The light in the chamber was so subdued that nothing around him
could be seen with any distinctness. Two living figures were present, a
nurse moving about softly, and a visitor. He discerned that the latter
was feminine, and for the time this was all.
He was recalled to his surroundings by a voice murmuring the inquiry:
'Does the light try your eyes?'
The tones seemed familiar: they were spoken by the woman who was
visiting him. He recollected them to be Marcia's, and everything that
had happened before he fell ill came back to his mind.
'Are you helping to nurse me, Marcia?' he asked.
'Yes. I have come up to stay here till you are better, as you seem to
have no other woman friend who cares whether you are dead or alive. I am
living quite near. I am glad you have got round the corner. We have been
very anxious.'
'How good you are!... And--have you heard of the others?'
'They are married. They have been here to see you, and are very sorry.
She sat by you, but you did not know her. She was broken down when she
discovered her mother's death, which had never once occurred to her as
being imminent. They have gone away again. I thought it best she should
leave, now that you are out of danger. Now you must be quiet till I come
and talk again.'
Pierston was conscious of a singular change in himself, which had been
revealed by this slight discourse. He was no longer the same man that he
had hitherto been. The malignant fever, or his experiences, or both, had
taken away something from him, and put something else in its place.
During the next days, with further intellectual expansion, he became
clearly aware of what this was. The artistic sense had left him, and he
could no longer attach a definite sentiment to images of beauty recalled
from the past. His appreciativeness was capable of exercising itself
only on utilitarian matters, and recollection of Avice's good qualities
alone had any effect on his mind; of her appearance none at all.