Chapter VII

SNOW began to fall at dusk, just a week after Christmas; and when, on New Year's morning, Anna came out of her room and along the gallery the ceiling overhead was as bright as no mere sunshine could make it, with that clear radiant clearness that the morning light on snow alone can give. The coffered roof ten feet above her was visible in every detail of its blue and gold, and the floor beneath, with its rugs and its chairs and the great shining piano and the gilded pipes of the organ, resembled a Dutch painting, so minute and perfect and homely it all appeared. She went along the gallery, herself extraordinarily pretty and f air-complex ioned in that enchanting light, and tapped softly on the door of the West Bedroom. There was no answer; but she was conscious of a vibration from within. Then the door opened softly and Charleson's face looked out. He nodded emphatically without a word, and stood aside to let her go by. Then he closed the door behind her and himself went across into the bathroom so as to be within call.

The room was as unterrible as a death chamber ever can be. It was not quite that yet; but the end could not be far off. The lad's headaches had begun again midway through November; and the doctor had been there every day onwards. Sir Arthur Handsworth had come down twice from London; but had confessed that there was no more to be done. Morphia had been administered from time to time when the patient's pain drove him into delirium; but at all other times he had refused it. A week before Christmas stupor had set in; and, it was thought, blindness. He talked a little from time to time, but had seemed to recognise nobody. Last night, however, he had awakened from unconsciousness, and Anna had had half an hour's talk with him. He had then fallen asleep; and an hour later the news had come to her that he still slept. He had told her, before he slept, that his blindness had come back.

This morning the daylight on the snow outside brightened the room wonderfully, though he would not be able to see it. The white light lay on the high polished furniture, the frames of the engravings, the folds of the chintz curtains— and above all, on the face of the dying man and the linen round his swathed head. He lay high in bed, his shoulders supported by piles of pillows and his hands hidden beneath the silk quilt. He had already been shaved and washed; and the folds and sunken hollows in his cheeks were vivid and sharp. His eyes were turned on Anna as she came in, and he smiled as he heard her step.

" That's you? " he said.

His voice was quite distinct and very quiet. It was not horrible in any way.

" Yes, my dear," she said; and sat down by his bedside.

" Give me a kiss if you don't mind."

She rose again, and kissed him very softly on his forehead, just below the wet bandage. The druglike smell was very clear to her as she did so.

" How long have I got? " he asked, as she sat down again.

She did not pretend not to understand.

" We must wait till the doctor comes," she said.

" You wired for Algy, as I asked you last night? "

" He'll be here by eleven."

An extraordinary steadiness of will had come down on her since her last desperate struggle more than two months ago, when she had turned, in the morning-room, on the old man and poured out on him the last drops of bitterness that her soul contained. Since that time, when she had learned of her boy's own attitude to death — how he too had " his bad times," how he hid them from her, not because he did not love her, but because he loved her enough to trust her as well — since the moment when she had looked out of the window and seen the great Robbia Pieta leaning against the wall of the terrace, and had understood what its erection meant — since then she had had not even a temptation to resentment. It appeared to her now that it had not been death itself that she had feared for him, but its circumstances; and that as long as she could keep her attention fixed on death itself, its circumstances could not distract nor trouble her. Since that revelation she simply had not to struggle at all: it seemed that she had been lifted clean out of the realm where resentment is possible, where one soul demands attentions from another, where the small passions rage and fret, and faults are found and grudges cherished. It was like... it was like the world, she thought this morning, on which the snow had fallen — a wide white shining realm where roughnesses have ceased to exist, where colours have gone back again, not into the blackness that is their negation, but to the whiteness which is their source and end. The whiteness is deathly cold, but it is not death, it is only silence; it lights, too, the dark roofs and corners of a house within, though it lies heavy on the house without.

She could think, too, broadly and passively now, instead of actively and energetically. She could look back on the past, without even a flush of personal feeling — on Enid and her own jealousies, on Nevill's disturbing detachment, on the long chain of miseries — her omens, her terrors, her apprehensions, on the growing crescendo of NevilTs sickness, his headaches, his sudden blindness, on the horrors of the operation and the drawing-room where she had learned the news that he must die, on her dull wretchedness at Hartley again and her flare of anger in the morning-room. She saw these now to be but steps of an initiation of which she had never dreamed — an initiation into a secret of which she had thought that she already held the key. She had been told long ago of how serene she seemed — Nevill himself had spoken of it to her when her husband had died: she knew now, in the possession of real serenity, how false the other had been. It had been a trick of temperament — no more than that. But now she could look on this boy's gaunt face against the pillows, at his closed eyes, his wet-bandaged head, on the angles of his shoulders so sharp through his night-clothes, without clenching her teeth.... She could watch him and talk to him slowly without even desiring to take his hand: she could picture his dying here before her eyes, without horror. He lay here — she knew that now — in the room that she once feared so much; in the bed where his father had died before him — he lay here, as certainly a part of the enormous Design that enfolded and used them both — as reconcilable with the vast Sacrificial Love that was its secret — as Jim himself playing with the collies on the lawn. The line between good and evil was not the same as the line between pleasure and pain; it was the line rather between the acceptance and the non-acceptance of destiny.

" I don't think there's anything particular to say," said Nevill, after a pause. (He spoke slowly, but quite distinctly, with short silences between his sentences.)

" No, my dear, I don't think there is."

" Handsworth said I should get my senses back before I died, didn't he? "

" Yes. He said it might be so." "Well.... I suppose this is it?" " It may be so," she said.

" Aunt Anna."

" Yes, my dear."

" You'd better tell Father Richardson to bring the Viaticum... while I'm conscious."

" You'd like him to come at once? "

" Directly after Mass, if he will be so kind.... And I want to see Jim after breakfast.... It isn't eight yet? "

" Not quite."

" You're going to Mass? "

" If you don't want me."

" I'm all right," said Nevill. " Charleson was here just now.... The nurse has gone down for breakfast, I suppose? "

" I think so."

*' Aunt Anna."

" Yes, my dear."

" I do want to say something after all.... I want to be quite sure, you know.... You're perfectly happy, aren't you? "

" Yes," she said, quite deliberately. " I'm perfectly happy."

He smiled, still with closed eyes.

" I knew you were. It was ever since the Pieta was put up, wasn't it? I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it before; but I had to do it my own way, you know.... You'll let it stop there, won't you?... I told you about Frascati, didn't I?"

" Yes, my dear."

" Well; it all dates from that, you know. Those are the two points.... I began to see that after my operation— as soon as I knew I couldn't live. I saw the point then. Everything fits in perfectly, you know, as soon as you see that. Enid, and everything else."

" My dear, you're too tired "

" No, I'm not.... I want just to say it, bang out.... What an ass I was!... I wanted to be a Jesuit first, you know.... Then I was angry when I was told I mustn't be.... Then I tried Enid — instead of God, you know.... And then I was routed out of that.... And then I tried just being happy alone — Nature... and all that rot, you know.... And then I got ill.... I see the point now... you do too, don't you?... Of course you do.... So here we are, back again at the beginning.... You do really see, don't you? "

" Yes; I see perfectly," said Aunt Anna.

Jim went upstairs all alone, very sedate and quiet, as soon as he had had breakfast. He looked back from the top of the stairs, to see if his mother was still looking up at him from the hall. She was; and she nodded reassuringly. He hastily turned away again. He felt a little ashamed of having needed that reassurance.

Then he tapped cautiously on the door of the West Bedroom.

It had been an agitating morning for Jim. So long as Cousin Nevill was really properly ill, nothing much interrupted life. He had, of course, to go very quietly always along the gallery; and the piano was not to be touched at all — not even God Save the King with one finger, in F, was to be rendered upon it. Neither were the collies to be brought indoors at all, on any pretext whatever, for fear that Jill might bark. Otherwise, however, matters proceeded as usual, or, at least, as they did when Cousin Nevill was away from home. There had been one rather disconcerting morning when Jim had heard curious sounds issuing from the bedroom door; but he had been commanded to use the back-staircase for the rest of that day; in the evening a baize door arrived in a cart and was taken upstairs; and thenceforward life was normal. He was aware, of course, that Cousin Nevill was very ill indeed; but after a week or so this did not greatly affect his imagination.

This morning, however, at breakfast his mother had "looked funny," as he would have expressed it; and she presently told him that he was to go and see Cousin Nevill and say good-bye to him. Jim had inquired whether Cousin Nevill was going to go to Rome again; and his mother had then told him quite plainly once more that Cousin Nevill was going to die.

Jim's views on death were perfectly formed. He knew exactly what happened. The soul went to heaven, after a spell in Purgatory, and the body went into the churchyard. He blinked rather rapidly when he hear,d that this was going to happen to Cousin Nevill, and played with his toast. He was not sure whether he wanted to cry or not: but crying was discouraged by his mother. And, in any case, for about six weeks he had not seen Cousin Nevill at all; and six weeks is a vast period. He looked up at his mother presently.

" And I shan't see him any more? " he said. " After now, I mean? "

" Not till you die yourself, my dear."

" When shall I die? "

" I have no idea at all," said Anna gravely. " But there's something else too I want to say. Cousin Nevill has been very ill indeed: you know that, don't you? Well, he looks quite different now; he's much thinner and he's wearing a — a sort of white cap on his head. You mustn't touch that white cap — it's wet; and you mustn't be frightened, will you? "

" No, Mummy," said Jim very softly.

" Stop as long as he wants you; and if he doesn't say anything, ask him whether you're to go away. If he does-n't answer, just come away on tip-toe. I shall be in the hall all the time, and Nurse will be in the bathroom. So you won't be afraid, will you? "

" No, Mummy."

Here then he stood; and his heart hammered in his breast.

Nothing happened when he tapped; and he tapped again. Then the door shook ever so slightly; then it opened and Nurse Deacon's face looked out. (Jim loved Nurse Deacon entirely; she gave him a rusk sometimes; it was pleasant to meet her face first.) She smiled and stood back: and Jim went in.

He stood on the threshold suddenly petrified. There was a solemnity and there was a curious smell, too, for which he was not prepared. The room looked, too, frightfully white, in the reflected light from outside. Then he saw a face on the pillows, with the white cap over it; and the face did not appear to him to be Cousin Nevill's at all.

" Jim," said a very odd voice, very low.

Ah! that was Cousin Nevill all right then. He had really not been quite sure till he heard that; but it was a whisper which he had heard before, in games. He went forward, with the nurse's hand on his shoulder.

" Good-morning, old man? I hope you're quite well. That's you, isn't it? "

" Good-morning, Cousin Nevill.... Er... may I kiss you? "

" Kiss him very gently," said Nurse Deacon's voice.

Jim approached the bed resolutely, and put one knee upon the edge. The nurse's hands held him, that he should not slip. Then Jim administered a careful kiss to Cousin Nevill's left cheek. It felt " funny " to his lips.

" That's all right," said Cousin Nevill. " Now sit down, old man; and don't shake the bed." The big eyes turned to Nurse Deacon and seemed to give some sort of signal. The nurse said nothing, and passed round the foot of the bed. Jim's eyes followed her a little anxiously, as she went through the door into the bathroom on the further side. But she did not absolutely shut the door, as he had feared she might.

" Jim, old man.... You're not frightened? "

Jim brought his eyes back again to that rather grim face; and determined that he must not be frightened. He cleared his throat, which appeared to him rather dry.

" No, Cousin Nevill. Not at all, thank you."

" Jim; there are just three things I want to say. Listen, won't you; and tell me if you don't understand."

" All right," said Jim.

" The first is this.... Do you remember about the Grail?"

" Yes, Cousin Nevill." (He felt he must be very polite, somehow.)

" Well; you were right and I was wrong.... It isn't in the woods; at least not more than anywhere else.... We needn't go and look for it.... It's anywhere where we are."

Jim's eyes wandered vaguely round the room. He did not understand one word.

" You've got it already/' said Cousin Nevill. " Don't lose it, will you? "

" I don't understand at all, Cousin Nevill."

Cousin Nevill did not appear to take this in; for he immediately went on. He simply did not seem to hear. His eyes looked very far-away and bright.

" You don't really find it, till you drink it, you know. You must tilt it right up when the time comes, and drink it all. Then you see it."

Jim cleared his throat rather more loudly. Cousin Nevill seemed to him rather foolish. He raised his voice a little.

" I don't understand, you know," he said.

Cousin Nevill's eyes blinked a little. Then he smiled.

" Poor old man! No, I know you don't.... It doesn't matter.... Now number two. What's number two?... Oh, yes.... I'm going to die, you know; and then all this place will belong to you and your mother."

This was more intelligible.

"All of it?" asked Jim.

" Yes: all of it.... Every single thing.... And when you're twenty-one it'll all be yours. You'll be a good boy, won't you? "

Jim sighed. He had not expected this sort of conversation.

" And you'll always be good to your mother.... Won't you?"

" Yes, Cousin Nevill."

(Cousin Nevill was obviously ill and must be humoured.)

" You'll be Sir Jim, you know."

This did not seem interesting.

"Shall I?" said Jim,

" Now ido you want to say anything to me? Because number three is Good-bye."

Jim considered.

" When are you going to die, Cousin Nevill? "

" Very soon now."

" Oh!... When you're dead, may I bring Jill into the house again? "

A glimmer passed over that gaunt face that was like a bad mask of Cousin Nevill; and his lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile.

" Of course, old man. Bring her into the house at once, if your mother '11 let you. Tell her it's my house, just now,... if she says No.... And then see what she says.... Anything else, old man? "...

" Shall you be buried in the brick-room in the churchyard, Cousin Nevill? " inquired Jim, who saw that he was expected to make conversation; and really could not think of anything else.

" Yes, old man.... In the brick-room. That's right."

" May I go down and look, when it's opened? "

" Better not do that, old man.... And you'll say a prayer for my soul, won't you? "

" Oh, yes," said Jim indifferently.

There was a pause.

" Well, old man, I think we'd better have number three now.... Just press that button.... Behind my head." Jim found an interesting sort of handle attached to a string lying on the pillow. He had not seen anything quite like that before, and examined it with interest.

"The white thing, Cousin Nevill?"

" Yes.... That's it. Press it right in."

Jim pressed it; and there followed a faint ringing sound from somewhere else. Then the door of the bathroom opened and Nurse Deacon appeared.

" Now, say good-bye, Jim.... And give me a kiss."

A curious change had passed over Cousin NevilFs face; his eyebrows seemed flickering up and down, and his mouth was very tight. He was breathing rather quickly, too, through his nose. Nurse Deacon, for once, appeared slightly agitated too: she came round the bed very swiftly.

" Lift him up, please," said Cousin Nevill, in a sharp whisper.

Once more, then, Jim planted a knee on the bedclothes, and administered a kiss. Cousin Nevill's cheek seemed even funnier than before: it was all wet, and rather cold.

" There! " said Nurse Deacon, in rather a quick voice. " Now go and tell your mother I want her at once."

" Good-bye, Cousin Nevill," observed Jim.

" 'Bye, old man," came the whisper from the bed.

Ill

At some remote point in time, detached, it appeared, from all previous times and experiences, Nevill became aware that he was in bed, and that his consciousness was still attached to his body. But that, at first, was the utmost extent to which his perception reached. It was as if he were in a little circle; within the circle there was the sensation of touch and even tiny and minute sounds; there was also a faint taste on his lips; but nothing else; and beyond the circle there was nothing at all; there was, at first, even, no memory. He knew nothing except that he was in bed — where, how, or what it was all about, or what time it was, or whether it were day or night — of these things he knew nothing.

Then, like transparent walls, this circle began to glimmer into shadows — at first, only, of memory. He began to remember his last experience — it was of talking to Jim.

Towards the end of that talking a new kind of pain had begun in his head; and he remembered that he had told Jim to ring the bell; because he was aware he would presently collapse again, and Jim mustn't be frightened. He had been also able to hold on till Jim had kissed him; he had been able even to say Good-bye: then, when he had heard the soft closing of the inner baize door, he had let out his agony in one long moan. The pain had really been intolerable, partly because it was so new and unusual.

Things that had happened after that were vague and confused. Aunt Anna had been by him for certain moments; he had smelled a particular fragrance which he associated with her. His arm had been lifted and his hands held; and he remembered supposing that someone was giving him morphia again. But he had not been able to attend to these things. The blue lights in his head that quivered before him like a permanent lightning-flash shaken from side to side, had occupied him entirely. All this had gone on for a long time; he had heard someone moaning ceaselessly; and it had been quite a while before he had understood that it was himself. Yet once more, as after his operation, he had perceived that Pain was one thing, and himself another; and, by stretching the whole force of his will, he could keep them so. He must not let the Pain come any nearer: he knew that. That had been the last thing that he could remember. And now, here he was back again; and just at present there was no pain — at least, no actual pain. It was like hearing a tune hummed over, only.

After a while not merely memory but present perception began to disclose itself, as the circular wall melted yet further; and he understood that someone once more was holding his hand — someone on either side. That seemed an inexpressible comfort. He moved his hands a little to reassure himself that it was really so. Then his right hand was relinquished, but he twisted it to show that he wanted it to be held again: and another hand came down on it. But, simultaneously, a damp, faintly stinging thing passed across his forehead, down his face, and into the corners of his mouth. He sucked greedily, and was aware of the taste of lemon. That was delicious. He felt, too, a very faint, soothing breeze all over his face.

Again the circular walls had grown even more transparent, and he perceived, he did not know how, that there were people in the room.

He must ask who was there....

But there was no answer. He wondered whether he really had spoken. He would try again....

This time there came an answer; and he knew it for Aunt Anna's whisper.

" Yes, my darling? "

Ah! that was all right. He was really in communication with people. But hadn't she heard what he had said? He must say it again....

A voice began buzzing in answer. How could he possibly hear if people spoke so fast? They must speak slowly. He would say so....

That was better....

Oh! Algy was there, was he? Then it must be after eleven. He was to have been here by eleven to-day... or was it yesterday? Or last week? Well; he was here. Good old Algy! Who else!

Oh! Masterson was here, was he; and Mrs. Temple-more... and Charleson... and Nurse Deacon.... Wait: that's too fast... Nurse Deacon... and... and Aunt Anna. But why wasn't Mr. Morpeth here? He wanted Mr. Morpeth.... He would say so....

Oh! Mr. Morpeth had been sent for, had he? That was all right. And Father Richardson? Father Richardson?... He had been here, had he? And gone again. But would be back soon.

" Speak more slowly, Aunt Anna, please."

That was better; he could understand it like that.

" Father Richardson — has — been — here — and — has said — all the prayers — for the dying "

For the dying? Was he dying? Of course he was! What a fool he was to forget that! That was why everyone was here.

Dying!

He fell into an interior musing upon the word; and the walls appeared to grow a little opaque again as he meditated. He could only contemplate one thought at a time — the thoughts that he had rehearsed so often lately. Dying!... But Death was something quite different. Dying hurt so cruelly because one was still alive. That was no reason for thinking that Death would hurt too. Dying hurt because Death was not come, not because it was. Well; if Death did not hurt; if Death ended the pains of dying; what would Death begin? Obviously it must begin something....

He suddenly began to think of the Grail. (He had talked about the Grail quite lately to someone — oh! yes — • to Jim.) Well, drinking the Grail was very bitter. Enid had first really set his lips to it; and then the physical pain had begun a little later. But when the Grail was empty — when the moment came that the last drops had been swallowed — what then? Obviously the first long draught of new air must be sweet....

The Grail!

That was the Cup of Sacrifice, was it not? That was why he had had to drink it; old Morpeth had told him all about that. It was for his father, among other things.

So here He was, in the bed in which his father died; and in the same room. What a fool he had been about this room! The shadows were only dreadful, so long as one looked at them from the light: there was no real harm in them when one stepped forward into their midst....

(Yes; that lemon taste was delicious. And it was very pleasant to have one's hands held.)

Then he began to wonder whether anyone else were in the room. He was sure Aunt Anna hadn't finished her list. What about the doctor? He must ask.... No; it was not worth the trouble. He would think about Death instead.

Then, imperceptibly, the walls closed about him again; but he did not notice them. He was considering Death.

Once again at some remote point in time, detached from all experience, he found that his consciousness was still attached to his body; but it was attached in a new kind of way. He was aware that somewhere in the universe, as if at an enormous depth beneath the point where he himself stood poised, great wheels of blue flame were all crashing and whirling together. The clamour of them was incredible, harsh and grinding; but they no longer affected him. There was a loud rasping sound of breathing too, such as he had heard when his father died. Then, through the crashing and the gasping, he heard the thunder of a voice repeating Latin. He was as a man who, at the edge of a huge chasm, himself at ease and safety, looks down on the tumult below, where great forces strive together....

Dying, then, was still in process somewhere; and he watched with a kind of pity that dreadful conflict that roared below. It was to him, in some sense, that that Latin was spoken; and he understood its power.... Here and there he could catch a phrase. He was being bidden to " go forth " in the name of Powers and Principalities... of all those great Existences which, he knew now, waited invisible in that wide expanse that was all about him, poised here above the struggle that raged beneath....

It was down there, then, that all those whom he loved waited about his struggling body. He knew they were there, as a man who has climbed to a great height knows, as he looks back, that there in the valley are the fields and the house that he knows so well. They were all in the surge and the stress still — Aunt Anna, and the servants, and Algy, and the old man — who could not be long after, him, now — there in that plane from which rose up the great words of power that battled with the roar of the pulses in his head, and the blinding shocks of pain, and the fighting for breath — and not with these, only or chiefly, but with the rushing tides of evil and revolt that swayed and tossed — seen by him from up here as a great tumbling torrent or a tossing waste of water looked down upon by a man on a cliff. But he himself was far off and remote....

Where, then, was he?

Then, as he considered this, he, too, began to thrill and vibrate. From beneath rose up thin, imperceptible tides; or, rather, he perceived now for the first time that he was in them still; that he was not yet as wholly apart as he had thought from all acts and volitions and experiences. But they were thin and subtle, as befitted his new condition; and he saw that he could yet act....

Then a great and piercing sorrow surged through him, not indeed at the memory of his sins and rebellions, but at his consciousness of their very essence. It was not that life passed before him as a series or progress of events, but that the quality of it — as he had lived it — had a thin and bitter aroma which he had never suspected. And, as there met him from above that piercing breath of the world to which he went — as clean and sharp and radiant as the light reflected from snow — these two tides mingled in him like a chord of sorrow and love and ecstasy.... Every image faded from him; every symbol and memory died; the chasm passed into nothingness; and the Grail was drunk, and colours passed into whiteness; and sounds into the silence of Life; and the Initiation was complete.

THE END