The end is soon told. On the following day, we thought it best to tell our
two companions and the Vicar what was happening, and we also told the old
butler that Father Payne was ill. It was a day of infinite dreariness to
me, with outbursts of sharp emotion at the sight of everything so closely
connected with Father Payne, and with the thought that he would see them no
more.
I was sitting in my room on the Friday morning, after a sleepless night,
when Barthrop came in and handed me a telegram from the doctor. "Mr. Payne
never recovered consciousness, and died an hour after the operation. All
details arranged. Please await letter." I raised my eyes to Barthrop's
face, but saw that he could not speak. I could say nothing either: my mind
and heart seemed to crumble suddenly into a hopeless despair.
A letter reached us the same evening by train. It was to the effect that
Father Payne had written down some exact directions the day before and
given them to the matron. He did not wish, in case of his death, that
anyone should see his body: he wished to be placed in the simplest of
coffins, as soon as possible, and that the coffin should be sent down by
train to Aveley, be taken from the station straight to the church, and if
possible to be buried at once. But even so, that was only his wish, and he
particularly desired to avoid alike all ceremony and inconvenience. But
besides that there were two notes enclosed addressed in Father Payne's hand
to Barthrop and myself, which ran as follows:
"My dear Leonard,--_I thought it very good of you to come up to
see me, and no less good of you to go away as I desired. It is
possible, of course, that I may return to you, and all be as
before. But to be frank, I do not think it will be so. Even if I
survive, I shall, I think, be much weakened by this operation,
and shall have the possibility of a recurrence of the disease
hanging over me. Much as I love life, and the world where I have
found it pleasant to live, I do not want to lead a broken sort of
existence, with invalid precautions and limitations. I think that
this would bring out all that is worst in me, and would lead to
unhappiness both in myself and in all those about me. If it has
to be so, I shall do my best, but I think it would be a
discreditable performance. I do not, however, think that I shall
have this trial laid upon me. I feel that I am summoned
elsewhere, and I am glad to think that my passage will be a swift
one. I am not afraid of what lies beyond, because I believe death
to be simple and natural enough, and a perfectly definite thing.
Of what lies beyond it, I can form no idea; all our theories are
probably quite wide of the mark. But it will be the same for me
as it has been for all others who have died, and as it will some
day be for you; and when we know, we shall be surprised that we
did not see what it would be. I confess that I love the things
that I know, and dislike the unknown. The world is very dear and
familiar, and it has been kind and beautiful to me, as well as
full of interest. But I expect that things will be much
simplified. And please bear this in mind, that such a scene which
we went through yesterday is worse for those who stand by and can
do nothing than for the man himself; and you will believe me when
I say that I am neither afraid nor unhappy._
"_With regard to my wishes about the place being kept on, on
its present lines, remember that it is only a wish, and not to be
regarded as a binding obligation or undertaken against your
judgment. I trust you fully in this, as I have always trusted
you; and I will just thank you, once and for all, for all that
you have done and been. I shall always think of you with deep
gratitude and lasting affection. God bless you now and always.
Your old friend,_
"CHARLES PAYNE."
To me he had written:
"My dear boy,--_Please read my letter to Barthrop, which is
meant for you as well. I won't repeat myself--you know I dislike
that. But I would like just to say that you have been more like a
son to me than anyone I ever have known, and I thank God for
bringing you into my life, and for all your kind and faithful
affection. You must just go on as you have begun; and I can only
say that if I still have any knowledge of what goes on in the
world, my affection and interest will not fail; and if I have
not, I shall believe that we shall still find each other again,
and rejoice in mutual knowledge and confidence. You are very dear
to me, and always will be._
"_Settle everything with Leonard. I know that you will be able
to interpret my wishes as I should wish them to be interpreted.
Your affectionate old friend,_
"C. PAYNE."
The last act was simple enough. The preparations were soon made. The coffin
arrived at midday, and was buried in the afternoon, between the church and
the Hall. It was sad and beautiful to see the heartfelt grief of the
villagers: and it was wonderful to me that at that moment I recovered a
kind of serenity on the surface of the grief below, so that in the still
afternoon as we walked away from the grave it seemed to me strange rather
than sorrowful. With those last letters in mind, it seemed to me almost
traitorous to mourn. He at least had his heart's desire, and I did not
doubt that he was abundantly satisfied.