“It does not seem possible,” said the rector, slowly; “and yet somehow I
cannot help thinking sometimes that I must be going to die.”
“Herbert!”
“It is very curious--very curious--my reason tells me so, not feeling. I
myself am just what I always was; but I think the symptoms are against
me, and I see it in Marsden’s looks. Doesn’t he say so to you?”
“Dear,” said Mrs. Damerel, with a trembling voice, “he does not conceal
from me that it is very serious; but oh, Herbert, how often have we seen
even the children at death’s door, and yet brought back!”
“At death’s door,” he said reflectively; “yes, that’s a good
expression--at the door of something unknown. Somehow it does not seem
possible. One can believe it for others, not for one’s self. The idea is
very strange.”
Mrs. Damerel was a good, religious woman; and her husband was a
clergyman. She did not feel that this was how he ought to speak at such
a moment, and the thought wrung her heart. “Dearest,” she said, growing
more tender in her grief and pity, “it is a thing we must all think of
one time or another; and to you, who have served God faithfully, it must
be something else than ‘strange.’”
“What else?” he said, looking up at her. “I might say confusing,
bewildering. To think that I am going I know not where, with no
certainty of feeling that I shall ever know anything about it; that I am
no longer a free agent, but helpless, like a leaf blown into a corner by
the wind--I who for very nearly fifty years have had a voice in all that
was done to me. My dear, I don’t know that I ever realized before how
strange it was.”
“But--you are--happy, Herbert?” she said, in a low, imploring voice.
“Happy, am I? I don’t know--why should I be happy? I know what I am
leaving, but I don’t know what I am going to. I don’t know anything
about it. Something is going to happen to me, of which I have not the
least conception what it is. I am not afraid, my dear, if that is what
you mean,” he said, after a momentary pause.
This conversation took place weeks after the departure of Edward
Wodehouse and the end of that first flowery chapter of Rose’s life. Her
parents had not thought very much of her feelings, being concerned with
much weightier matters. It had been a very long, lingering illness, not
so violent as some fevers, but less hopeful; the crisis was over, but
the patient did not mend. He was dying, and his wife knew it; and,
though no one as yet had made the solemn announcement to him, he had
found it out. He was very weak; but his mind was not at all impaired,
and he could talk, with only a pause now and then for breath, as calmly
as ever. It was a curious spectacle. He was gathering his cloak round
him like Cæsar, but with sensations less satisfied and consciously
heroic. Mr. Damerel was not a man to be indifferent to the necessity of
dying fitly, with dignity and grace, but he had confidence in himself
that nothing would disturb the folds of his robes at that supreme
moment; he knew that no spiritual dread or cowardice would impair his
fortitude; it was not necessary for him to make any effort to meet with
dignity the unknown which was approaching; and his mind was at leisure
to survey the strange, unexpected situation in which he found
himself--going to die, without knowing what dying was, or how it would
affect him, or where it would place him. I do not know, though he was a
clergyman, that there was anything religious in the organization of his
mind, and he had never come under any of those vivid influences which
make men religious--or, at least, which make them fervent
religionists--whatever may be the constitution of their mind. Mr.
Damerel was no sceptic. He believed what he had been taught, and what he
had taught in turn to others. His mind was not doctrinal or dogmatic,
any more than it was devout; but he believed in the broad truths of
Christianity, in some sort of a heaven, and some sort of a hell. These
beliefs, however, had no effect upon his present state of feeling. He
was not afraid of the hereafter; but his mind was bewildered and
confounded by the contemplation of something close at hand which he did
not know, and could not know so long as he retained consciousness of
this only world with which he was acquainted. He was absorbed by the
contemplation of this mystery. He was not thinking of his sins, nor of
reward, nor of punishment, nor of rest from his labors (which had not
been many). In short, he did not consider the great change that was
about to take place upon him from a religious point of view at all, but
rather from one which was at once natural and philosophical. I should
not like to blame him for this, as, perhaps, some people will do. When
we have lost much that made life sweet; when our friends, our children,
have gone before us into the unseen country; then, indeed, the heart
learns many longings for that world in which alone there can be reunion
and explanation of life’s sore and weary mysteries. But this was not Mr.
Damerel’s case. There was no one waiting for him at the golden gates;
except perhaps, those whom he had long forgotten, and who had gone out
of his life. He was departing alone, the first of his generation;
curious and solitary, not knowing where he was going. To God’s presence;
ah yes! but what did that mean?
“All the same, my dear,” he said, cheerfully, rousing himself, “we must
not make ourselves wretched about it. A thing that happens to every man
cannot be so very bad; and, in the mean time, we must make the best of
it. I ought to have thought of it, perhaps, more than I have done.”
“Oh, Herbert! God is very merciful,” said his wife, who was crying
softly by his side.
“Yes, yes, that is quite true; but that is not what I was thinking of. I
ought to have thought of what would follow in case of this happening
which is about to happen. I ought to have tried to save; but how could I
have saved out of the little pittance we had?”
“Dear, don’t think of such things now.”
“But I must think upon them. I have never had any extravagant tastes,
and we have always lived very quietly; but I fear you will find a
difference. What a blessed thing that you are the sort of woman you are!
The struggle will not fall so heavily upon you as upon most people.
Incledon, of course, will marry Rose”--
“Oh, Herbert! what does all this matter? Do not think of it. I would so
much rather hear you speak of yourself.”
“There is nothing to say about myself; and, perhaps, the less one
thinks, in the circumstances, the better; it is a curious position to be
in--that is all that one can say. Yes, Incledon will marry Rose; he will
make her a very good husband. Do not let it be put off from any regard
to me. He will be a great help to you; and you may trust him, I should
think, to settle about the boys. Lay as much upon him as you can; he is
quite able to bear it. If one had foreseen this, you know, there are
many things that one might have done; but--curious!” said the rector,
with a smile, “I can’t believe in it, even now.”
“Oh, Herbert, it is never too late for God! Perhaps your feeling is the
right one. If He would but give you back to us now!”
“No, no; don’t think there is anything prophetic in my feelings, my
dear. You may be sure every man is like me, more or less,” said Mr.
Damerel. “I know we must all die; only it is impossible in respect to
one’s self; I am myself, you perceive, just as much as ever; and yet
to-morrow, perhaps, or next day--there’s the wonder. It makes one feel
giddy now and then. About the boys: I have always felt that one time or
other we should have to decide something for the boys. Leave it to
Incledon; he is a practical man, and will know what to advise.”
“Dear Herbert, if you can talk of it--oh, how much better it would be to
tell me what _you_ wish, that I might be guided by your own feeling,
than to refer me to any one else!” said Mrs. Damerel, crying, kissing
his hand, and gazing with wet eyes into his calm face.
“Oh, talk; yes, I can talk, but for a little catching of the breath, the
same as ever, I think; but the boys are a troublesome subject. Leave it
to Incledon; he knows all about that sort of thing. I think now,
perhaps, that I might sleep.”
And then the curtains were dropped, the watcher retired a little out of
sight, and everything was subdued into absolute stillness. Mrs. Damerel
sat down noiselessly in the background, and covered her face with her
hands, and wept silent tears, few and bitter. She had felt him to be
hard upon her many a day; she had seen what was wanting in him; but he
was her husband, the first love of her youth, and her heart was rent
asunder by this separation. She had enough to think of besides, had she
been able; she had poverty to face, and to bring up her children as best
she could in a world which henceforward would not be kind and soft to
them as it had been hitherto. Her soul was heavy with a consciousness of
all that was before her; but, in the mean time, she had room for no
distinct feeling except one--that her husband, her love, was going to be
taken from her. This tremendous parting, rending asunder of two lives
that had been one, was more than enough to fill all her mind; she had
room for nothing more.
And he slept, or thought he slept, floating out of the vague pain and
wonder of his waking thoughts into strange, vague visions, dimmer still,
and then back again to the fancies which were waking and not sleeping.
There was a dim impression of painfulness in them, rather than pain
itself; wonder, curiosity, and that strange sense of an absolute blank
which makes the soul giddy and the brain swim. Sometimes his mind seemed
to himself to wander, and he got astray somehow, and felt himself
sinking in an unfathomable sea, or striving to make his way through some
blackness of night, some thorny wood in which there was no path. I
suppose he was asleep then; but even he himself scarcely knew.
When he woke it was evening, and the lamp, carefully shaded, had been
lit at the other end of the room. He liked the light; and, when he
stirred and spoke, the watchers made haste to draw back the curtains.
The serene evening sky, full of soft tints of reflection from the
sunset, with breaks of daffodil light melting into ineffable soft
greenness and blueness, shone in through the uncurtained window which he
liked to have left so, that he might see the sky. Rose and her mother
were close by the bright circle made by the lamp, one of them preparing
some drink for him, the other opening a new bottle of medicine which had
just been sent. Though it was all so familiar to him, the fact that he
was to go away so soon seemed to throw a strangeness over everything,
and gave a bewildering novelty even to the figures he knew so well.
“More of Marsden’s stuff,” he said, with a low laugh; and his own voice
sounded far off to him, as he lay looking at that strange little
picture--a distant view of the two women against the light, with the sky
and the window behind; somebody’s wife and daughter--his own--his very
Rose, and she who had been his companion since his youth. Strange that
he should look at them so quietly, almost with an amused sense of
novelty, without any tragic feeling or even pain to speak of, in the
thought that he was going away shortly and would see them no more. He
fell to thinking of a thousand things as he lay there watching them, yet
not watching them. Not the things, perhaps, that a dying man ought to
think of; little nothings, chance words that he had forgotten for years,
lines of poetry, somehow connected with his present condition, though he
did not remember the links of connection. “The casement slowly grows, a
glittering square,” he said to himself, and made an effort to think
whence the line came, and why it should have at this moment thrust
itself into his mind. Then he fell altogether into a poetic mood, and
one disconnected line followed another into his mind, giving him a vague
sense of melancholy pleasure. He said one or two of them aloud, calling
the attention of his nurses--but it was not to them he was speaking.
Finally, his mind centred on one which first of all seemed to strike him
for its melody alone:--
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing, anxious being e’er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?
He said this aloud once or twice over. “‘To dumb forgetfulness a prey!’
that is not my feeling--not my feeling; the rest is very true. Gray does
not get half justice nowadays. How it satisfies the ear, flowing round
and soft! ‘To dumb forgetfulness!’ now I wonder what he meant by that?”
“You are better, papa,” said Rose, softly. Her mother stayed behind, not
able to speak; but the girl, in her simplicity, thought the poetry “a
good sign.”
“No, Rose. ‘Dumb forgetfulness,’--it is not that, child; that is not
what one fears; to be sure there is a coldness and blackness that might
chime in with the words. But the rest is true, ‘the warm precincts of
the cheerful day;’ warm is a living word altogether; it is not warm out
here.”
“I will put the quilt on the bed,” said wistful Rose, thinking he
complained of cold.
“No,” he said, roused, with a gentle laugh; “the quilt will do nothing
for me; I am not cold--not yet; I suppose I shall be presently. Is your
mother there? My dear, help me with your experience. I dislike cold so
much; does one feel it creeping up before one dies?”
“Oh, Herbert, dearest!” said his wife, heart-broken. What could she
answer to such a question?
“Nay, I don’t want to make an unnecessary fuss,” he said; “it is only a
curiosity I have. Cold creeping up--it is disagreeable to think of it.
What! I have I more medicine to take? What does Marsden mean by sending
me his detestable compounds still? It will only make your bill the
larger, and me the less comfortable. I will not have it; take it away.”
“It is something different,” said Mrs. Damerel. “The doctor thought
perhaps it might be worth trying.”
“Is it the elixir of life?” said the patient, smiling; “nothing short of
that would be worth trying; even that would be too much trouble for the
good. It would be folly to come back now, when one has got over all the
worst of the way.”
“You do not feel worse, Herbert?”
“Oh, no; when I tell you the worst is over, my anxious Martha! I am
curious--curious--nothing more. I wish I could but tell you, after, what
sort of a thing it was. Sit down by me, and give me your hand. Rose, you
will be good; you will do everything your mother says?”
“Oh, Herbert!” said his wife, “do not think of us--if it has come to
this--think of yourself, think where you are going--to God, Herbert,
dearest, to be happy beyond anything we can think.”
“Is it so?” he said, still smiling. “I don’t know where I am going, my
dear, and that is the only thing that gives me a little trouble. I
should like to know. I am not afraid of God, who has always been far
better to me than I deserved; and I hope I know the way of life.” This
he said with a momentary seriousness which was quite exceptional. Then
he added, in the musing tone which to his anxious watchers seemed almost
a gentle delirium, “But think, my dear! to be sent even into a new
place, a strange town, in the dark, without any direction--without
knowing where to go, right hand or left.” He gave a little, soft, broken
laugh. “It is the strangest way of dealing with curious, inquisitive
creatures like men. I never realized it before.”
Here some one appeared, beckoning behind the curtains, to say that Mr.
Nolan was in the next room. The curate came daily, and was always
admitted. Rose went softly out to meet him, and almost dropped into the
kind man’s arms in her exhaustion and excitement. “He is talking so very
strangely,” she said, the tears running down her pale cheeks. “Oh, Mr.
Nolan, I think he is wandering in his mind! Should I send for the
doctor? To hear him speak is enough to break one’s heart.”
The good curate put her in a chair and soothed her, smoothing her
pretty hair, with unconscious tenderness, as if she had been a child.
“Don’t cry, dear,” he said; “or rather, do cry, poor child, it will do
you good; and stay quiet till I come back.”
Rose did what she was told with the docility of helplessness. She lay
back in the chair, and cried softly. In this new strait she was as a
child, and all the child’s overwhelming sense of desolation, and
half-superstitious awe of the terrible event which was coming, weighed
down her heart. Pity, and terror, and grief mingled in her mind, till it
seemed unable to contain so much emotion. She sat and listened to the
low voices in the next room, and watched the side gleam of light which
came from the half-open door. The very world seemed hushed while this
drama came to its conclusion, and there was not a sound without or
within but the soft movements in the sick-room, and the low voices. How
many new experiences had come into her simple life in so short a time!
Darkness overshadowed the earth already, so that her pleasant pathway in
it seemed lost; and now here was Death, that visitor who is always so
doubly appalling the first time he enters a peaceful house.
“Well, Nolan, you have come in time, for I am just setting out,” said
the rector, in a voice stronger than it had been, his anxious wife
thought. “Why, man, don’t look so grave; and you, my dear, don’t cry, to
discourage me. Set me out on my journey a little more cheerily! I never
thought much about dying people before; and mind what I say, Nolan,
because it is your work. Of course, to those who have never thought
about such matters before, religion is all-important; but there’s more
in it than that. When a man’s dying he wants humoring. Such strange
fancies come into one’s head. I am not at all troubled or serious to
speak of; but it is a very odd thing, if you think of it, to set out on
such a journey without the least notion where you are to go!”
And he laughed again. It was not harsh nor profane, but a soft laugh, as
easy as a child’s. I do not know why it should have horrified the
attendants so, or what there is wrong in a laugh so gentle from a
death-bed; but the hearers both shivered with natural pain and almost
terror. They tried to lead him to more serious thoughts, but in vain.
His mind, which had been serious enough before, had got somehow
dissipated, intoxicated by the approach of the unknown. He could think
of nothing else. A certain levity even mingled in his excitement. He
asked questions almost with eagerness--questions no one could
answer--about the accessories of death. He was curious beyond
description about all that he would have to go through. “What a pity
that I shall never be able to tell you what it is, and how I liked it!”
he said, reflectively; “at least until you know all about it, too; we
can compare notes then.” He would not give up this kind of talk. After
the prayers for the sick, which Mr. Nolan read, he resumed the same
subject; and if it is possible to imagine anything that could have made
this terrible moment of her life more bitter to poor Mrs. Damerel, I
think this would have been the one thing.
“Are his affairs in order, do you know?” said the doctor, after paying
his late visit, as the curate accompanied him to the door. He had just
given it as his opinion that his patient could not see another morning;
and Mr. Nolan had made up his mind to remain at the rectory all night.
“I shouldn’t think it; he has never taken much trouble with his
affairs.”
“Then don’t you think you could speak to him even now? I never saw a man
so clear-headed, and in such possession of his faculties, so near--Speak
to him, Nolan. He knows exactly how things are, and no agitation can
harm him now. He must have some wishes about his family--some
arrangements to make.”
Mr. Nolan restrained with difficulty an exclamation that rose to his
lips, and which might have sounded unkind to a dying man; and then he
asked abruptly, “Do you find, in your experience, that people who are
dying are much concerned about those they leave behind?”
“Well, no,” said the doctor, doubtfully; “I don’t think they are. Self
gets the upper hand. It is all Nature can do at that moment to think how
she is to get through”--
“I suppose so,” said the curate, with that seriousness which naturally
accompanies such a speculation. He walked with the doctor to the gate,
and came back across the plot of shrubbery, musing, with a heavy heart,
on the living and on the dying. It was a lovely starlight night, soft
and shadowy, but with a brisk little questioning air which kept the
leaves a-rustle. Mr. Nolan shivered with something like cold, as he
looked up at the stars. “I wonder, after all, where he is going?” he
said to himself, with a sympathetic ache of human curiosity in his
heart.