Beside Still Waters, Arthur Christopher Benson [good books for high schoolers .txt] 📗

friend. She knew that this had been repeated to Hugh, and judged rightly that it had hurt and wounded him. Her letter was to the effect that the judgment was entirely baseless, and that he was to pursue the line he had taken up without any attempt to deviate from it. It went to Hugh's heart that he had made little effort of late, owing to circumstances and pressure of work, to see her; but he knew that she was aware of his affection, and he had never doubted hers. He felt, too, that if there had been anything to forgive, any shadow of dissatisfaction, it was forgiven in that moment. Her death seemed somehow to Hugh to be the strongest proof he had ever received of the permanent identity of the soul; it was impossible to think of her as not there; equally impossible was it to think of her as wrapt in sleep, or even transformed to a heavenly meekness; he could think of her, with perhaps an added brightness of demeanour, at the knowledge of how easy a thing after all had been the passage she had feared, with the dark eyes that he knew so well, like wells of fire in the pale face, smiling almost disdainfully at the thought that others should grieve for her; she was one whom it was impossible ever to compassionate, and Hugh could not compassionate her now. She would have had no sort of tolerance for any melancholy or brooding grief; she would desire to be tenderly remembered, but she would have been utterly impatient of the thought that any grief for her should weaken or darken the outlook of her friends upon the world. Hugh resolved, with a great flood of strong love for his friend, that he would grieve for her as she would have had him grieve, as though they were but separated for a little.

She had left, he learnt, the most decisive direction that no one should be summoned to her funeral: that was so like her brave, sensible nature; she desired the grief for her to be wholesome and temperate grief, with no lingering over the sad accidents of mortality. Hugh felt the strong bond of friendship, that had existed between them, grow and blossom into a vigorous and enduring love. She seemed close beside him all that day, approving his efforts after a joyful tranquillity. He could almost see her, if he sank for a moment into a tearful sorrow, casting upward that impatient look he knew so well, if any instance of human weakness were related in her presence.

And thus the death of his old friend seemed, as the day drew on, to have brought a strange brightness into his life, by making the dark less terrible, the unknown more familiar. She was there, with the same brave courtesy, the same wholesome scorn, the same humorous decisiveness; and though the thought of the gap came like an ache into his mind, again and again, he resolved that he would not yield to ineffectual sadness; but that he would be worthy of the friendship which she had given him, not easily, he remembered, but after long testing and weighing his character; and that he would be faithful--he prayed that he might be that--to so pure and generous a gift.


XL

A Funeral Pomp--The Daily Manna--The Lapsing Moment

In Hugh's temperament, sensitive and eager as it was, there was a strong tendency to live in the future and in the past rather than in the present. In the past, he realised, he could live without dismay and without languor, because the mind has so extraordinary a power of sifting its memories, of throwing away and disregarding all that is sordid, ugly, and base, and retaining only the finest gold. But there was a danger in dwelling too much upon the future, because the anxious mind, fertile in imagination, was so apt to weave for itself pictures of discouragement and failure, sad dilemmas, dreary dishonours, calamities, shadows, woes. How often had the thought of what might be in store clouded the pure sunshine of some bright day of summer; how often had the thought of isolation, of loss, of bereavement, hung like a cloud between himself and his intercourse even with those whom he most feared to lose! He thought sometimes of that sad and yet bracing sentiment, uttered by one whose life had been filled with every delight that wealth, guided by cultivated taste, could purchase. "My life," said this wearied man, "has been clouded by troubles, most of which never happened." But even apart from the sorrows which he knew might or might not befall him, there was one darkest shadow, the shadow of death, the cessation of beloved energies, of delightful prospects, of the sweet interchange of friendship, of the bright and brave things of life. Could one, he asked himself, ever come to regard death as a natural, a beautiful thing, a delicious resting from life, an appointed goal? It was the one thing certain and inevitable, the last terror, the final silence, which it seemed nothing could break.

The thought came to him with a deep insistence on a day when a funeral of a great personage, called away without a single warning, was celebrated in the chapel of his own college. There was a great gathering of friends and residents. The long procession, blackrobed and bareheaded, with the chilly winter sun shining down on the court, wound slowly through the college buildings, with many halts, and at last entered the great chapel, the organ playing softly a melody of pathetic grief, in which the sad revolt of human hearts that had loved life, and the warm, kind world, made itself heard. They passed to their places, and then very slowly and heavily, the sad and helpless burden, the coffin, veiled and palled, freighted with the rich scents of the dying flowers that lay in stainless purity upon it, was borne to its place. The life of their brother had been a very useful, happy, and innocent life, full of quiet energies, of simple activities, of refined pleasures. There seemed no need for its suspension. The very suddenness of the summons had been a beautiful and kindly thing, attended by no fears and little suffering--but kindly, only upon the supposition that it was necessary. The holy service proceeded, the voice of old human sorrow, of tender hope, of ardent faith, thrilling through the mournful words. It was well, no doubt, as acquiescence was inevitable, to acquiesce as patiently, even as eagerly as possible. But there were two alternatives; either the beloved life had gone out utterly, as an expiring flame; if so, was it not well to know it, so that one might frame one's life upon that sad knowledge? yet the heart could not bear to think it; and then faith seemed to step in, dimly smiling, finger on lip, and pointing upwards. If that smile, that pointing hand, meant anything, why could there not be sent some hint of certainty, that the sweet, fragrant life that was over, so knit up with love and friendship and regard, had a further, a serener future awaiting it? The question was, did such a scene as was then enacted hold any real and vital message of hope for the soul; or was it a thing to turn the back upon, to forget, to banish, as merely casting a shadow upon the joyful energies of life?

It seemed to Hugh, when the sad rites were done, and he was left alone, that there was but one solution possible; the thought shaped itself dimly and wistfully out of the dark--that there was one element that was out of place, one element over which the mind had a certain power, that one must resolve to exorcise and cast out--the element of fear. And yet fear, that unmanning, abominable thing, that struck the light out of life, that made one incapable of energy and activity alike, was that too not a dark gift from the Father's hand? Had it a purifying, a restoring influence? It seemed to Hugh that it had none. Yet why was it made so terribly easy, so insupportably natural, if it had not its place in the great economy of God? Was not this the darkest of dark dilemmas? Slowly reflecting on it, Hugh seemed to see that fear had one effect of good about it; it was one of those things, and alas they were many, that seemed strewn about us, only that we might learn to triumph over them. For one who really believed in the absolutely infinite and all-embracing Will of God, there was no room for fear at all. If the things of life were sent wisely, tenderly, and graciously, not care, not suffering, not even death admitted of any questioning; and yet fear seemed a deeper, more instinctive thing than reasoning itself. The very fear of non-existence, in the light of reason, seemed a wholly unreal thing. No shadow of it attached to the long dark years of the world, which had passed before one's own conscious life began. One could look back in the pages of history to the ancient pageant of the world in which one had no part, and not feel oneself wronged or misused in having had no share in those vivid things. Why should we regard a past in which we had had no conscious part with such a blithe serenity, and yet look forward to that future, in which, for all we knew, we could have no part either, with such an envious despair? The thought was unreasonable enough, but it was there. But it was possible, by thus boldly and tranquilly confronting the problem, to diminish the pressure of the shadow. A man could throw himself, could he not, in utter confidence before the feet of God, claiming nothing, demanding nothing but the sense of perfect acquiescence in His Will and Deed? The secret again was, not to forecast and forebode, but to live in the day and for the day, practising labour, kindliness, gentleness, peace. That was a true image, the image of those old pilgrims who gathered the manna for their daily use; little or much, it sufficed; and no one might, through indolence or prudence, evade the daily labour by laying up a store; the store vanished in corruption. So it was with all ambitious dreams, all attempts to lay a jealous hand on what might be; it was that which poisoned life. Those far-reaching plans, those hopes of ease and glory, that wealth laid up for many years, they were the very substance of decay. Even fear itself must be accepted, when it was wholesomely and inevitably there; but not amplified, added to, dwelt upon. How rarely was one in doubt about the next, the immediate duty. And one could surely win, by patient practice, by resolute effort, the power of casting out of the moment the shadow of the uneasy days ahead. How simple, how brief those very uneasinesses turned out to be! Things were never as bad as one feared, ever easier than one had hoped. It was a false prudence, a foolish calculation, to think that by picturing the terrors of a crisis one made it easier when it came; just as one so sadly discounted joys by anticipation, and found them hollow, disappointing husks when they lay open in the hand.

Hugh rose up from his thoughts and walked to the window. The day was dying,