AFTER this Meredith’s malady made gradual but rapid progress. When Colin and his friend returned from Rome in the evenings, after their expeditions there, they thought they could see a difference in his looks even from the morning. He ceased to move about; he ceased to go out; finally he ceased to get up from his bed. All these changes were accomplished very gradually, with a heart-breaking regularity of succession. Alice, who was constantly engaged about him, doing every kind of office for him, was fortunately too much occupied to take full cognizance of that remorseless progress of decay; but the two friends, who watched it with eyes less urgent than those of love, yet almost more painfully pitiful, could trace all the little advances of the malady. Then there came the time, the last stage of all, when it was necessary to sit up with him all night—an office which Colin and Lauderdale shared between them, to let the poor little sister have a little reluctant rest.
The season had warmed into May, of all seasons the sweetest in Italy. To see the sun shine, it seemed impossible to think that he would not shine for ever; and, when the window of the sick room was opened in the early morning, such a breath of life and happiness came in—such a sweet gust of air, wild from the great breadth of the Campagna, breathing of dews and blossoms—as felt to Colin’s lips like an elixir of life. But that breathing balm imparted no refreshment to the dying man. He was not suffering much; he was only weary to the bottom of his soul—languid and yet restless, eager to be moved, yet unable to bear any motion. While Alice withdrew behind them by times to shed the tears that kept always gathering, and say a prayer in her heart for her dying brother—a prayer in which, with a child’s simplicity, she still left room for his restoration, and called it possible—the two others watched with the profoundest interest that which was not only the dying of a friend, but the waning of a life. To see him so individual and characteristic, with all the notable features and even faults of his mind as distinct and apparent as if he had been in the strongest health, and yet so near the end, was the strangest spectacle. What was it the end of? He directed them all from his deathbed, and, indeed, controlled them all, with a will stronger than ever before, securing his own way in face of all their remonstrances, and, indeed, seemed to grow more and more strong, absolute, and important, as he approached the final stage of weakness—which is a sight always wonderful to see. He kept on writing his book, propped up upon pillows, as long as he had strength enough to hold the pen; but, when that power too failed him, the unyielding soul coerced itself into accepting the pen of another, and dictated the last chapter, at which Alice laboured during the day, and which occasionally, to beguile the tedium of the long night-watches, his other attendants were permitted to carry on.
The nights grew shorter and shorter as the season advanced, and sometimes it was by the lovely light of the dawning morning, instead of the glimmer of the lamp, that these solemn sentences were written. At other moments, when the patient could not sleep, but was content to rest, wonderful scraps of conversation went on in that chamber of death. Meredith lay gaunt and wasted among his pillows—his great eyes filling the room, as the spectators sometimes thought; and by his bedside rose, sometimes the gigantic figure of Lauderdale, dimly visible by means of the faint night-light—sometimes Colin’s young softened face and air of tender compassion. It did not occur to any of the three to ask by what right they came together in relations so near and sacred. The sick man’s brothers, had he possessed them, could not have watched him with more care, or with less doubt about his claim upon all their ministrations: but they talked with him as perhaps no brother could have talked—recognising the reality of his position, and even discussing it as a matter in which they too had the profoundest interest. The room was bare enough, and contained little comfort to English eyes—uncarpeted, with bare tiles underneath the feet, and scantily furnished with an old sofa, a chair or two, and a table. There were two windows, which looked out upon the Campagna which the dying man was to see no more, nor cared to see. But that great living picture, of no benefit to him, was the only one there; for poor Meredith had himself caused to be taken down from the wall a print of the Madonna, and the little cross with its basin for holy water underneath, which had hung at the head of his bed. He had even sent away a picture of the Crucifixion—a bad, yet not unimpressive copy. “I want no outward symbols,” said the sick man; “there will be none where I am going,” and this was the beginning of one of those strange talks by night.
“It’s awfu’ difficult to ken,” said Lauderdale. “For my part it’s a great wonder to me that there has never been any revelation worthy of credit out of that darkness. That poor fellow Dives, in the parable, is the only man I mind of that takes a Christian view of the subject. He would have sent one to tell. The miracle is, that nae man was ever permitted to come.”
“Don’t say so,” said Meredith. “Oh, my dear friend! if you could but know the joy it would give me to bring you to Christ before I die—to see you accept and receive Him. Has not He come to seek and to save?”
“Callant,” said the watcher, with a long drawn breath, “I’ve longer acquaintance with Him than you can have; and if I dinna believe in Him I would hang myself, and get to an explanation of all things. If it was not for Him, wherefore should I, that have nobody dependent on me, endure the mystery? But that’s no answer to my question. He came to put a meaning in the world that has little enough signification without Him, but no to answer a’ the questions that a human spirit can put to heaven and earth. I’ve heard of bargains made between them that were to die and them that had to live—”
“You put it in a strange way, Lauderdale,” said the dying man; “most people would say, those who had to die. But what can any one want beyond what is revealed—Jerusalem the golden? How strange it is to think that a worm like me shall so soon be treading those shining streets, while you—you whom the world thinks so much better off—”
“Whisht,” said Lauderdale, with a husky voice. “Do you no think it would be an awfu’ satisfaction to us that stay behind if we could have but a glint of the shining streets you speak of? Many a long day we’ll strain our eyes and try hard to see you there, but a’ to little purpose. I’m no saying I would not take it on trust for myself, and be content with what God pleased; but it’s hard to part with them that belong to us, and ken nothing about them—where they are, or how they are—”
“They are in Heaven! If they were children of God they are with Him,” said the sick man, anxiously. “Lauderdale, I cannot bear to think that you do not believe—that perhaps I may not meet you there.”
“Maybe no,” said the philosopher; “there’s the awfu’ question. A man might go ranging about the shining streets (as you say) for ever, and never find them that belonged to him; or, if there’s no geographical limits, there may be others harder to pass. It’s awfu’ little comfort I can get for my own mind out of shining streets. How am I to picture you to myself, callant, when I take thoughts of you? I have the fancy in my mind to give you messages to friends I have away yonder; but how can I tell if you’ll ever see them? It’s no a question of believing or not believing; I put little faith in Milton, and none in the good books, from which two sources we draw a great part of our talk about Heaven. It’s no even to ken if they’re happy or no happy that troubles me. I’ve nae hesitation to speak of in leaving that in God’s hand. It’s but to have an inkling ever so slight where ye are, and how you are,” said Lauderdale, unconsciously changing his pronouns, “and that ye keep thought of us that spend so many thoughts on you.”
After this there was a little pause, which fell into the perfect stillness of the night outside, and held the little dim-lighted chamber in the midst of all the darkness, like the picture of a shadowy “interior,” with two motionless figures, the living and the dying, painted upon the great gloom of night. Meredith, who, notwithstanding the superior intensity of his own thoughts, had been moved by Lauderdale’s—and who, used as he was to think himself dying, yet perhaps heard himself thus unconsciously reckoned among the dead with a momentary thrill—was the first to speak.
“In all this I find you too vague,” said the patient. “You speak about Heaven as if you were uncertain only of its aspect; you have no anxiety about the way to get there. My friend, you are very good to me—you are excellent, so far as this world goes; I know you are. But, oh, Lauderdale, think! Our righteousnesses are as filthy rags. Before you speculate about Heaven, ask yourself are you sure to get there?”
“Ay,” said Lauderdale, vaguely, “it’s maybe a wee like the question of the Sadducees—I’m no saying; and it’s awfu’, the dead blank of wisdom and knowledge that’s put forth for a response—no any information to you; nothing but a quenching of your flippant questions and impudent pretensions. No marrying nor giving in marriage there, and the curious fools baffled, but nae light thrown upon the darkness! I’ll have to wait like other folk for my answer; but, if it’s according to your new nature and faculties—which surely it must be—you’ll not forget to give us a thought at times? If you feel a wee lonely at the first—I’m no profane, callant; you’re but a man when a’s done, or rather a laddie, and you’ll surely miss your friends—dinna forget how long and how often we’ll think of you.”
“Shall you?” said the dying man. “I have given you nothing but trouble ever since I knew you, and it is more than I deserve. But there is One who is worthy of all your thoughts. When you think of me, O love Him, my dear friend, and so there will be a bond between us still.”
“Ay,” said Lauderdale once more. It was a word he used when his voice could not be trusted, and his heart was full. “Ay,” he repeated, after a long pause, “I’ll no neglect that grand bond. It’s a bargain between you and me no to be broken. If ye were free for such an act, it would be awfu’ friendly to bring me word how things are”—he continued, in a low tone, “though it’s folly to ask, for if it had been possible it would have been done before now.”
“It is God who must teach and not me,” said the dying man. “He has other instruments—and you must seek Him for yourself, and let Him reveal His will to you. If you are faithful to God’s service, He will relieve you of your doubts,” said Arthur, who did not understand his friend’s mind, but even at that solemn moment looked at him with a perplexed mixture of disapproval and compassion. And thus the silence fell again like a curtain over the room, and once more it became a picture faintly painted on the darkness, faintly relieved and lighted up by touches of growing light, till at length the morning came in full and fair, finding out as with a sudden surprise the ghostly face on the pillow, with its great eyes closed in disturbed sleep, and by the bedside another face scarcely less motionless, the face of the man who was no unbeliever, but whose heart longed to know and see what others were content, in vague generalities to tell of, and say they believed.
This was one of the conversations held in the dead of night in Meredith’s room. Next evening it was Colin, reluctantly permitted by his faithful guardian to share this labour, who took the watcher’s place; and then the two young men, who were so near of an age, but whose prospects were so strangely different, talked to each other after a different fashion. Both at the beginning of their career, and with incalculable futures before them, it was natural they should discuss the objects and purposes of life, upon which Meredith, who thought himself matured by the approach of death, had, as he imagined, so much advantage over his friend, who was not going to die.
“I remember once thinking as you do,” said the dying man. “The world looked so beautiful! No man ever loved its vanities and its pomp more than I. I shudder sometimes to think what would have become of me if God had left me to myself—but He was more merciful. I see things in their true light now.”
“You will have a great advantage over us,” said Colin, trying to smile; “for you will always know the nature of our occupations, while yours will be a mystery to us. But we can be friends all the same. As for me, I shall not have many pomps and vanities to distract me; a poor man’s son, and a Scotch minister does not fall in the way of such temptations.”
“There are temptations to worldliness in every sphere,” said Meredith. “You once spoke eagerly about going to Oxford, and taking honours. My dear friend, trust a dying man. There are no honours worth thinking of but the crown and the palm, which Christ bestows on them that love Him.”
“Yes,” said Colin; “but we are not all chosen for these. If I have to live, I must qualify myself the best I can for my work. I should like to be of a little use to Scotland, if that was possible. When I hear the poor people here singing their vespers——”
“Ah, Campbell! one word—let me speak,” said his friend. “Alice showed me the poem you gave her. You don’t mean it, I know; but let me beg you not to utter such sentiments. You seem to consent to the doctrine of purgatory, one of the worst delusions of the Church of Rome. There are no spirits in prison, my dear, dear friend. When I leave you, I shall be with my Saviour. Don’t give your countenance to such inventions of the devil.”
“That was not what I intended to say,” said Colin, who had no heart for argument. “I meant that to see the habit of devotion of all these people, whom we call so ignorant, and to remember how little we have of that among our own people, whom we think enlightened, goes to my heart. I should like to do a priest’s duty——”
“Again!” said Meredith. “Dear Campbell, you will be a minister; there is but one great High Priest.”
“Yes,” said Colin, “most true, and the greatest of all consolations. But yet I believe in priests inferior—priests who need be nothing more than men. I am not so much for teaching as you are, you know; I have so little to teach any man. With you who are going to the Fount of all knowledge it will be different. I can conceive, I can imagine how magnificent may be your work,” the young man said, with a faltering voice, as he laid his warm young hand upon the fingers which were almost dead.
Meredith closed his hand upon that of his friend, and looked at him with his eyes so clear and awful, enlarged and lighted up with the prescience of what was to come. “If you do your work faithfully it will be the same work,” he said. “Our Master alone knows the particulars. If I might have perhaps to supplement and complete what you do on earth!—Ah, but I must not be tempted into vain speculations! Enough that I shall know His will and see Him as He is. I desire no more.”
“Amen,” said Colin; “and, when you are in your new career, think of me sometimes, worried and vexed as I know I shall be. We shall not be able to communicate then, but I know now beforehand what I shall have to go through. You don’t know Scotland, Meredith. A man who tries for any new reformation in the Church will have to fight for trifles of detail which are not worth fighting for, and perhaps get both himself and his work degraded in consequence. You can know no such cares. Think of me sometimes when you are doing your work ‘with thunders of acclaim.’ I wonder—but you would think it a profanity if I said what I was going to say.”
“What was it?” said Meredith, who, indeed, would not have been sorry had his friend uttered a profanity which might give him occasion to speak, for perhaps the last time, “faithfully” to his soul.
“I wonder,” said Colin, whose voice was low, “whether our Master, who sees us both, though we cannot see each other, might tell you sometimes what your friend was doing. He, too, is a man. I mean no irreverence, Meredith. There were men for whom, above His tenderness for all, He had a special love. I should like to think it. I can know nothing of you; but then I am less likely to forget you, staying behind in this familiar world.”
And the two youths again clasped hands, tears filling the eyes of the living one, but no moisture in the clear orbs of him who was about to die.
“Let us be content to leave it all in His hands,” said Meredith. “God bless you, Colin, for your love; but think nothing of me; think of Him who is our first and greatest Friend.”
And then again came silence and sleep, and the night throbbed silently round the lighted chamber and the human creatures full of thought; and again there took place the perennial transformation, the gradual rising of the morning light, the noiseless entrance of the day, finding out, with surprised and awful looks, the face of the dying. This is how the last nights were spent. Down below in the convent there was a good friar, who watched the light in the window, and pondered much in his mind whether he should not go thither with his crucifix, and save the poor young heretic in spite of himself; but the Frate was well aware that the English resented such interruptions, and did better for Arthur; for he carried the thought of him through all his devotions, and muttered under his breath the absolution, with his eyes fixed upon the lighted window, and prayed, if he had any credit in heaven, through the compassionate saints, the Blessed Virgin, and by the aid of Him whose image he held up towards the unseen sufferer, that the sins which God’s servant had thus remitted on earth might be, even without the knowledge of the penitent, remitted in heaven. Thus Colin’s belief in priests was justified without his knowing it; and perhaps God judged the intercession of Father Francisco more tenderly than poor Arthur would have done. And with these private proceedings, which the world was unaware of, night after night passed on until the night came which was to have no day.
They had all assembled in the room, in which it seemed before morning so great an event was to happen—all worn and tired out with watching; the evidences of which appeared upon Colin and Alice, though Lauderdale, more used to exertion, wore his usual aspect. As usual, Meredith lay very solemnly in a kind of pathetic youthful state in his bed; struggling for every breath, yet never forgetting that he lay there before heaven and earth, a monument as he said of God’s grace, and an example of how a Christian could die. He called Alice, and the others would have withdrawn; but this he would not permit. “We have no secrets to discuss,” he said. “I am not able to say much now. Let my last words be for Christ. Alice, you are the last. We have all died of it. It is not very hard; but you cannot die in peace, as I do, unless you give yourself to Christ. These are my last words to my sister. You may not live long—you have not a moment to spare. Give yourself to Christ, my little Alice, and then your death-bed will be as peaceful as mine.”
“Yes,” said the docile sister, through her sobs, “I will never, never forget what you have said to me. Oh, Arthur, you are going to them all!”
“I am going to God,” said the dying man; “I am going to my Lord and Saviour—that is all I desire to think of now.”
And there was a momentary breathless pause. She had his hand in both of hers, and was crying with an utter despair and abandonment to which she had never given herself up before. “Oh, Arthur—papa!” the poor girl said, under her breath. If they had been less interested, or if the stillness had been a degree less intense, the voice was so low that the two other watchers could not have heard her. But the answer was spoken aloud.
“Tell him I forgive him, Alice. I can say so now. Tell him to repent while there is time. If you wish it, you can tell Colin and Lauderdale—they have been brothers to us. Come here, all of you,” said Meredith. “Hear my last words. Nothing is of any importance but the love of Christ. I have tried everything in the world—its pleasures and its ambitions—and—But everything except Christ is vanity. Come to Him while it is called to-day. And now come and kiss me, Alice, for I am going to die.”
“Oh, no, Arthur. Oh, Arthur, do not leave me yet!” cried the poor girl. Lauderdale drew her gently away, and signed to Colin to take the place by the bed. He drew her hand through his arm and led her softly into the great empty salone, where there was no light except that of the moon, which came in in broad white bars at the side windows. “Whisht! it’ll no be yet,” said the kind guardian who had taken possession of Alice. No mother or lover could have been tenderer with the little forlorn creature in this hour which was the most terrible of all. He made her walk softly about with him, beguiling her awful suspense a little with that movement. “A little more strength, for his sake,” said Lauderdale; “another trial—and then nobody shall stop your tears. It’s for his sake; the last thing you can do for him.”
And then the poor little sister gave utterance to a bitter cry, “If he would say something kind for papa, I could bear it,” she said, smothering her painful sobs; and Lauderdale drew her closer on his arm, supporting and soothing her, and led her about, slowly and noiselessly, in the great empty room, lighted with those broad bars of moonlight, waiting till she had regained a little composure to return to the chamber of death.
Meredith lay silent for some time, with his great eyes gazing into the vacancy before him, and the last thrill of fever in his frame. He thought he was thus coming with all his faculties alert and vivid to a direct conscious encounter with the unknown might of death. “Get the book, Colin,” he said, with a voice which yet possessed a certain nervous strength; “it is now time to write the conclusion”—and he dictated with a steady voice the date of his last postscript:—“Frascati, midnight, May 16th.—The last hour of my life——”