The Altar of the Dead HTML version

Chapter 9
And yet this was no solution, especially after he had talked again to his friend of
all it had been his plan she should finally do for him. He had talked in the other
days, and she had responded with a frankness qualified only by a courteous
reluctance, a reluctance that touched him, to linger on the question of his death.
She had then practically accepted the charge, suffered him to feel he could
depend upon her to be the eventual guardian of his shrine; and it was in the
name of what had so passed between them that he appealed to her not to
forsake him in his age. She listened at present with shining coldness and all her
habitual forbearance to insist on her terms; her deprecation was even still
tenderer, for it expressed the compassion of her own sense that he was
abandoned. Her terms, however, remained the same, and scarcely the less
audible for not being uttered; though he was sure that secretly even more than
he she felt bereft of the satisfaction his solemn trust was to have provided her.
They both missed the rich future, but she missed it most, because after all it was
to have been entirely hers; and it was her acceptance of the loss that gave him
the full measure of her preference for the thought of Acton Hague over any other
thought whatever. He had humour enough to laugh rather grimly when he said to
himself: "Why the deuce does she like him so much more than she likes me?"--
the reasons being really so conceivable. But even his faculty of analysis left the
irritation standing, and this irritation proved perhaps the greatest misfortune that
had ever overtaken him. There had been nothing yet that made him so much
want to give up. He had of course by this time well reached the age of
renouncement; but it had not hitherto been vivid to him that it was time to give up
Practically, at the end of six months, he had renounced the friendship once so
charming and comforting. His privation had two faces, and the face it had turned
to him on the occasion of his last attempt to cultivate that friendship was the one
he could look at least. This was the privation he inflicted; the other was the
privation he bore. The conditions she never phrased he used to murmur to
himself in solitude: "One more, one more--only just one." Certainly he was going
down; he often felt it when he caught himself, over his work, staring at vacancy
and giving voice to that inanity. There was proof enough besides in his being so
weak and so ill. His irritation took the form of melancholy, and his melancholy
that of the conviction that his health had quite failed. His altar moreover had
ceased to exist; his chapel, in his dreams, was a great dark cavern. All the lights
had gone out--all his Dead had died again. He couldn't exactly see at first how it
had been in the power of his late companion to extinguish them, since it was
neither for her nor by her that they had been called into being. Then he
understood that it was essentially in his own soul the revival had taken place, and
that in the air of this soul they were now unable to breathe. The candles might
mechanically burn, but each of them had lost its lustre. The church had become
a void; it was his presence, her presence, their common presence, that had