"Le temps apporte, emporte, mais ne rapporte pas."
"May I come in?" said the Bishop, tapping at Hester's door.
"Do come in."
Hester was lying propped up by many cushions on a sofa in the little
sitting-room leading out of her bedroom. She looked a mere shadow in the
fire-light.
She smiled at him mechanically, but her face relapsed at once into the
apathetic expression which sat so ill upon it. Her lustreless eyes fixed
themselves again on the fire.
"And what are you going to do this afternoon?" she said, politely. It
was obvious she did not care what he did.
"I am going to Westhope on business," he said, looking narrowly at her.
It was all very well for Dr. Brown to say she must be roused; but how
were his instructions to be carried out?
"I am a great deal of trouble to you," said Hester. "Could not I be sent
to a home, or a place where you go through a cure, where I should be out
of the way till I'm well?"
"Have I deserved that, Hester?"
"No; but you know I always try to wound my best friends."
"You don't succeed, my child, because they know you are in heavy
trouble."
"We will not speak of that," said Hester, quickly.
"Yes, the time has come to speak of it. Why do you shut us out of this
sorrow? Don't you see that you make our burdens heavier by refusing to
let us share yours?"
"You can't share it," said Hester; "no one can."
"Do you think I have not grieved over it?"
"I know you have, but it was waste of time. It's no good--no good.
Please don't cheer me, and tell me I shall write better books yet, and
that this trial is for my good. Dear Bishop, don't try and comfort me. I
can't bear it."
"My poor child, I firmly believe you will write better books than the
one which is lost, and I firmly believe that you will one day look back
upon this time as a stop in your spiritual life, but I had not intended
to say so. The thought was in my mind, but it was you who put the words
into my mouth."
"I was so afraid that--"
"That I was going to improve the occasion?"
"Yes. Dr. Brown and the nurse are so dreadfully cheerful now, and always
talking about the future, and how celebrated I shall be some day. If you
and Rachel follow suit I shall--I think I shall--go out of my mind."
The Bishop did not answer.
"Dr. Brown may be right," Hester went on. "I may live to seventy, and I
may become--what does he call it?--a distinguished author. I don't know
and I don't care. But whatever happens in the future, nothing will bring
back the book which was burned."
The Bishop did not speak. He dared not.
"If I had a child," Hester continued, in the exhausted voice with which
he was becoming familiar, "and it died, I might have ten more, beautiful
and clever and affectionate, but they would not replace the one I had
lost. Only if it were a child," a little tremor broke the dead level of
the passionless voice, "I should meet it again in heaven. There is the
resurrection of the body for the children of the body, but there is no
resurrection that I ever heard of for the children of the brain."
Hester held her thin right hand with its disfigured first finger to the
fire.
"A great writer who had married and had children, whom she worshipped,
once told me that the pang of motherhood is that even your children
don't seem your very own. They are often more like some one else than
their parents, perhaps the spinster sister-in-law, whom every one
dislikes, or some entire alien. Look at Regie. He is just like me, which
must be a great trial to Minna. And they grow up bewildering their
parents at every turn by characteristics they don't understand. But she
said the spiritual children, the books, are really ours.
"If you were other than you are," said Hester, after a long pause, "you
would reprove me for worshipping my own work. I suppose love is worship.
I loved it for itself, not for anything it was to bring me. That is what
people like Dr. Brown don't understand. It was part of myself. But it
was the better part. The side of me which loves success, and which he is
always appealing to, had no hand in it. My one prayer was that I might
be worthy to write it, that it might not suffer by contact with me. I
spent myself upon it." Hester's voice sank. "I knew what I was doing. I
joyfully spent my health, my eyesight, my very life upon it. I was
impelled to do it by what you perhaps will call a blind instinct, what
I, poor simpleton and dupe, believed at the time to be nothing less than
the will of God."
"You will think so again," said the Bishop, "when you realize that the
book has left its mark and influence upon your character. It has taught
you a great deal. The mere fact of writing it has strengthened you. The
outward and visible form is dead, but its spirit lives on in you. You
will realize this presently."
"Shall I? On the contrary, the only thing I realize is that it is not
God who is mocked, but His foolish children who try to do His bidding.
It seems He is not above putting a lying spirit in the mouth of his
prophets. Do you think I still blame poor James for his bonfire, or his
jealous little wife who wanted to get rid of me? Why should I? They
acted up to their lights as your beloved Jock did when he squeezed the
life out of that rabbit in Westhope Park. In all those days when I did
not say anything, it was because I felt I had been deceived. I had done
my part. God had not done His. He should have seen to it that the book
was not destroyed. You prayed by me once when you thought I was
unconscious. I heard all right. I should have laughed if I could, but it
was too much trouble."
"These thoughts will pass away with your illness," said the Bishop. "You
are like a man who has had a blow, who staggers about giddy and dazed,
and sees the pavement rising up to strike him. The pavement is firm
under his feet all the time."
"Half of me knows in a dim blind way that God is the same always," said
Hester, "while the other half says, 'Curse God and die.'"
"That is the giddiness, the vertigo after the shock."
"Is it? I dare say you are right. But I don't care either way."
"Why trouble your mind about it, or about anything?"
"Because I have a feeling, indeed, it would be extraordinary if I had
not, for Dr. Brown is always rubbing it in, that I ought to meet my
trouble bravely, and not sink down under it, as he thinks I am doing
now. He says others have suffered more than I have. I know that, for I
have been with them. It seems," said Hester, with the ghost of a smile,
"that there is an etiquette about these things, just as the blinds are
drawn up after a funeral. The moment has come for me, but I have not
drawn up my blinds."
"You will draw them up presently."
"I would draw them up now," said Hester, looking at him steadily, "if I
could. I owe it to you and Rachel to try, and I have tried, but I
can't."
The Bishop's cheek paled a little.
"Take your own time," he said, but his heart sank.
He saw a little boat with torn sail and broken rudder, drifting on to a
lee shore.
"I seem to have been living at a great strain for the last year," said
Hester. "I don't know one word from another now, but I think I mean
concentration. That means holding your mind to one place, doesn't it?
Well, now, something seems to have broken, and I can't fix it to
anything any more. I can talk to you and Rachel for a few minutes if I
hold my mind tight, but I can't really attend, and directly I am alone,
or you leave off speaking, my mind gets loose from my body and wanders
away to an immense distance, to long, dreary, desert places. And then if
you come in I make a great effort to bring it back, and to open my eyes,
because if I don't you think I'm ill. You don't mind if I shut them now,
do you?--because I've explained about them, and holding them open does
tire me so. I wish they could be propped open. And--my mind gets farther
and further away every day. I hope you and Rachel won't think I am
giving way if--sometime--I really can't bring it back any longer."
"Dear Hester, no."
"I will not talk any more then. If you and Rachel understand, that is
all that matters. I used to think so many things mattered, but I don't
now. And don't think I'm grieving about the book while I'm lying still.
I have grieved, but it is over. I'm too tired to be glad or sorry about
anything any more."
Hester lay back spent and gray among her pillows.
The Bishop roused her to take the stimulant put ready near at hand, and
then sat a long time watching her. She seemed unconscious of his
presence. At last the nurse came in, and he went out silently, and
returned to his study. Rachel was waiting there to hear the result of
the interview.
"I can do nothing," he said. "I have no power to help her. After forty
years ministry I have not a word to say to her. She is beyond human
aid--at least, she is beyond mine."
"You think she will die?"
"I do not see what is going to happen to prevent it, but I am certain it
might be prevented."
"You could not rouse her?"
"No, she discounted anything I could have said, by asking me not to say
it. That is the worst of Hester. The partition between her mind and that
of other people is so thin that she sees what they are thinking about.
Thank God, Rachel, that you are not cursed with the artistic
temperament! That is why she has never married. She sees too much. I am
not a match-maker, but if I had had to take the responsibility, I should
have married her at seventeen to Lord Newhaven."
"You know he asked her?"
"No, I did not know it."
"It was a long time ago, when first she came out. Lady Susan was anxious
for it, and pressed her. I sometimes think if she had been given time,
and if her aunt had let her alone--but he married within the year. But
what are we to do about Hester? Dr. Brown says something must be done,
or she will sink in a decline. I would give my life for her, but I can
do nothing. I have tried."
"So have I," said the Bishop. "But it has come to this. We have got to
trust the one person whom we always show we tacitly distrust by trying
to take matters out of His hands. We must trust God. So far we have
strained ourselves to keep Hester alive, but she is past our help now.
She is in none the worse case for that. We are her two best friends save
one. We must leave her to the best Friend of all. God has her in His
hand. For the moment the greater love holds her away from the less, like
the mother who takes her sick child into her arms, apart from the other
children who are playing round her. Hester is in God's keeping, and that
is enough for us. And now take a turn in the garden, Rachel. You are too
much in-doors. I am going out on business."
When Rachel had left him the Bishop opened his despatch-box and took out
a letter.
It was directed to Lady Newhaven.
"I promised to give it into her own hand a month after his death,
whenever that might happen to be," he said to himself. "There was some
trouble between them. I hope she won't confide it to me. Anyhow, I must
go and get it over. I wish I did not dislike her so much. I shall advise
her not to read it till I am gone."