Chapter XII: Desolate

Then black despair,
The shadow of a starless night was thrown
Over the world in which I moved alone.
SHELLEY.

Truth's golden o'er us although we refuse it.
E. BROWNING.

Great sorrows affect people so differently that it is often hard to know how to sympathise with those in trouble, the spoken words of comfort which may soothe one person may simply torture another, the reverential silence congenial to some seems cruelly cold to others. Grief, too, falls in so many different ways; to some it comes like a heavy physical blow, the bitterness of the pain, the shock to the whole system is so great, that for a time the senses fail, and a merciful unconsciousness and a faint, gradual return to life lessen to some extent the first anguish of suffering. To some sorrow comes piercingly, their imagination--all their faculties--seem for the time quickened by the pain, memories of the past crowd around them, visions of a barren future stretch out before their aching eyes, and this in the very first moments of their sorrow; grief is to them a sharp-edged sword, laying bare in an instant the very fibres of their being.

But there are others to whom sorrow comes in a more awful form, the blow falls on them, but no momentary unconsciousness comes to their relief, they do not sink under their load of pain, but stagger on in dull hopelessness; they may be spared the sharp realisation of the grief which pierces the heart, but their case seems more pitiable; for, instead of struggling from the depths of woe to calmness and peace, they labour on with a terrible weight on their hearts, a weight which numbs the faculties, and crushes the bearer into "dull despair." And then, as nature re-asserts herself, and the perceptions regain their vividness, a fearful re-action sets in, the despair deepens, the weight of woe becomes each day heavier to bear; this is the stony sorrow which human sympathy seems utterly powerless to reach, and which finds no outlet.

And yet the "All ye that labour and are heavy laden," has for hundreds of years brought to the world's Consoler those who are most borne down--most crushed by their grief.

Donovan knew the invitation well enough, but these things were to him as "idle tales;" to his suffering there was no relief because he would not stretch out his hand to take: he was as much alone as it is possible for any of us to be alone. A child may utterly refuse obedience to its father, may reject all love, in its ignorance may even refuse to believe in the love. Strong in its rebellion, it may shut itself away, bolting and barring the door upon the love that would seek it out; but, though it may refuse to remove the barrier, the father is still the father, and though the child cannot see how true and real his love is, because of the obstacle it has with its own hand raised between them, the strong love will surely never rest until it has conquered the child, and shown it its mistake; nor is it ever really alone--the barrier is only a barrier.

Donovan had thus shut himself into himself; with the dead calm of a worn-out body and an utterly despairing heart, he closed the door of Dot's room behind him, and with slow, dull, spiritless steps walked along the gallery. Ellis was standing in the doorway of his dressing-room; he came forward as his step-son passed, but the question he would have put died on his lips as he looked at Donovan's rigid face. He shuddered as the hollow, unnatural voice uttered the words he had expected, but had not dared to ask for--"She is dead!"

Ellis had not very often visited his little step-daughter's room; every now and then he had bought some trifling present for her, or had sent her a message by Donovan, and occasionally he had spent a few minutes beside her sofa, partly because he was anxious to keep up appearances, and wished the household to think him a worthy successor to Colonel Farrant, partly because of the real good nature which still to some extent guided his actions. His sorrow at her death was more genuine than might have been expected, and he had enough sympathy with Donovan not to torment him with common-place condolences, but to let him pass by in silence, feeling rightly enough that he was the last person who could venture to approach his grief. He waited until the door of his step-son's room had closed behind him, spoke a few words to the doctor, and then with rather hesitating steps went to Adela's room to tell her the news. At his knock she came to the door; she was wrapped in her dressing-gown, and her hair was loose and disordered. Ellis thought she had never looked so old before; her greyness and wrinkles, which he had never noticed, showed plainly enough now that she was _en déshabillé_; she looked what in truth she was, a middle-aged woman, and Ellis, who could not bear to face the fact that both he and his sister were no longer young, shivered a little. Did not each advancing year bring them nearer to the dreariness of old age, and, what was worse, nearer to the terrors of death! Death was an awful thing, and death was in the house at that very moment.

"What is it?" asked Adela--"is it all over?"

"Yes, it is over," he replied, gravely. "I must tell poor Honora. Come with me, Adela; she is so exhausted, I am half afraid how she will bear it."

"Other people may be exhausted too," said Adela, rather sharply. "What has become of Donovan? He has been in there all night."

"He has gone to his room. I was afraid to speak to him, he looked--I can't tell you how he looked. Yes, go to him, if you like, but you won't do him any good, poor fellow. It must have been an awful night."

Adela was thoroughly kind-hearted; she hurried at once towards Donovan's room, not allowing her natural shrinking from the sight of pain to hinder her an instant. It was certainly a relief, when she had received the word of admittance, to find that no spectacle of overpowering grief was to meet her gaze. The room was very cold and almost dark; a faint glimmer of light from the window, and the outline of a figure with the head drooped low, showed her where her cousin was. She groped her way towards him, her misgivings returning when he still did not speak or stir.

"Donovan," she said, with quick anxiety in her tone, "is anything the matter with you? Are you faint?"

Her words surprised him; he mused over them half curiously before replying. How strange it was to be asked if anything were the matter when he was simply crushed! And yet perhaps, in a sense, nothing was the matter--nothing mattered at all now that Dot was dead. And Dot was dead, she had passed away for ever.

"Donovan," pleaded Adela, "do speak to me--do break this dreadful silence!"

"She is dead," he replied, slowly, and then again his head drooped, and there was another long pause.

The window was wide open. The icy night air made Adela shiver; she looked from the faint grey sky to the snowy earth, and then in despair she looked back to her cousin's face, which, though indistinctly seen in the dim light, was evidently as cold and still as marble. The tears rose to her eyes and overflowed as she felt her utter powerlessness to relieve that stony sorrow. A half-stifled shivering sob roused Donovan at last.

"You are cold," he said, still in the same terribly hollow voice, and then he moved forward and shut the window.

She was now so thoroughly frightened by the strangeness of his manner that she lost all control over herself, and it was, after all, Donovan who had to quiet her grief.

"Why do you cry?" he said. "The pain is over for her, all is over; after all, it is only ourselves who suffer. One can endure a great deal, and sooner or later we too shall die think of the peace of that nothingness!"

"Oh, don't say such terrible things!" said Adela, shuddering and sobbing still more violently.

"It is my one comfort," he said; "but you, with the belief you profess, can need no comfort from such as I--your beautiful legends should comfort you."

"Yes, yes," she answered; "only it is so hard to be resigned. But, Donovan, I did not mean to be so weak; I wanted to be of use to you, indeed I did, and I have worried instead of comforted you."

"You have been very kind," he said, in a more natural tone; "but there is only one comfort, and I have told you what that is." Then, as she started with a sudden new terror, he put his cold hand on hers and added, "No, you need not be afraid; death is the comfort, but I shall not seek death in the way you fear--that is a cowardly thing to do. You need not think I shall try that way to rest."

"But is there nothing I can do for you?" asked Adela, awed and quieted by his strange manner.

"I should like you to go to my mother," he replied, without any hesitation.

Adela looked again at the white, stony face, but it was perfectly resolute, and she had no choice but to obey. With a heavy heart she went to see the other mourner, and tried to soothe the passionate weeping and bitter remorse of the mother.

The interview with his cousin had in some degree roused Donovan; he could not sink back to the state of lethargy in which she had found him. His power of realisation had to some extent returned, and the dead calm gave place to restlessness. He paced up and down the room with unsteady steps, then, chafed by the narrowness of the space, he opened his door and wandered along the gallery, down the stairs, and through the deserted rooms below. Everything had an utterly desolate look; the faint morning light revealed the drooping wreaths and decorations, the remains of the candles, which had guttered down into shapeless masses of wax, looked grotesquely forlorn, while the supper-room, with its disordered table and its profusion of fruit and flowers, was perhaps the most dreary-looking of all. The effect of the whole to Donovan seemed simply ghastly; "The Reel of Tullochgorum" rang in his ears, recalling all its miserable adjuncts, the noise of the gay crowd, the scraping and twanging of the instruments, above all, Dot's cries of anguish--those heart-piercing cries which were to haunt him for months.

By-and-by, as the daylight increased, the household began to stir; a maid-servant came into the drawing-room and re-arranged and dusted the furniture, from time to time casting half timid half compassionate glances at the restless figure pacing to and fro; doors were opened and shut, a general sound of sweeping and moving furniture made itself heard, a clatter of cups and saucers; bells were rung, footsteps hurried to and fro; Major Mackinnon's voice was heard asking for his boots. There was something awful in this business-like rebeginning of life. Dot was dead, yet for him life must go on in the old grooves,

"Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,
Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow."

The common-place bustle, the vision which had crossed his mind of the long barren years became at last intolerable. He hastened up the stairs once more, and from the force of long habit found himself on the way to Dot's room. The blinds were down; the cool green light quieted his restless impatient movements. He closed the door, and stole with hushed steps to the bedside. Then the forlornness of his grief broke upon him fully. No eager welcome from the soft, childish voice, no loving look from the dark eyes, no arms stretched out to cling round his neck, but only a motionless silent outline beneath the white sheet. He could not look at the veiled face, he turned away and threw himself on the ground in a terrible, silent agony.

After a time, the quietness of the room began to influence him. Only a few hours before it had been the scene of such weary suffering that the peacefulness of the present could not but seem doubly striking. The peace of non-existence! He hugged the thought to his heart, and in thinking of it forgot for the time his own pain. Then he slowly dragged himself up, and kneeling by the bed, drew aside the sheet. Nothing could have softened his suffering so completely as the sight which met his gaze. The beautiful little face seemed only a degree more pale and waxen than in life; the forehead, no longer contracted with pain, gleamed white and serene and starlike; the brown hair lay lightly on the pillow, the pale still lips smiled, the tiny thin hands were folded in solemn repose. How long he knelt silently beside her he never knew. He was roused at last by old Mrs. Doery. She came in, wiping her eyes with her apron, and for a minute stood at the foot of the bed, watching the two children whom she had brought up--the dead and the living. Perhaps the sight of the living one touched her heart the more keenly, for there was an unwonted tenderness in her manner as she addressed him.

"I was looking for you, Mr. Donovan," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "It's time you took some rest. You must be worn out."

Worn out! Ah! no. How he wished he had been! But he did not resist her when she urged him to go to his room. The quiet, passive, painless state he was in led him to acquiesce in anything. Later on, Ellis came to him, offering to see to all the necessary arrangements; he thanked him quietly, and consented. Then Adela came and begged him to see his mother, and he went for a little while to his mother's room, and described everything which had happened on the previous night, tranquilly, almost coldly. So the day passed on, and night came. The household was still once more, all were sleeping quietly; only Donovan lay with wide-open eyes, staring out at the black night, counting the hours mechanically as they passed, wondering now and then if he still lived, if this strange, numb passiveness were life at all.

The next two days went on in much the same way. The funeral was to be on the Saturday; on the Friday morning Donovan's unnatural calm began to give way. He had now been four nights without sleep, and the dull weight, the numbness of stifled pain was beginning to tell on him. When, on that day, he went as usual to Dot's room to gaze on the one sight which had served to comfort him, he received a sudden shock. The first great beauty of death had faded gradually, but, as that morning he gazed down on the tranquil face, he saw for the first time the faint evidences of mortality. The sight seemed to pierce his heart; he rushed away wildly, as though to escape from his grief; he paced with desperate steps up and down his room, trying in vain to forget what he had seen, trying to assure himself that it would not, could not be. "Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." The bitterness of the verdict was almost unbearable, for to him the perishable body was all that was left; unspeakably dear as it must be to all, it had to him a tenfold preciousness. His grief bordered so nearly on madness that everyone began to shrink from him in terror, and all that terrible day he was alone, now battling with his anguish, trying in vain to govern himself--now allowing his crazy sorrow to drive him as it pleased. At length, when night was come--the last night before Dot was to be borne away from him to the churchyard--he went once more to the death-chamber. The little white coffin was closed--he did not regret it; he would not look on her again, only his frantic pacings to and fro seemed more bearable in that room than in his own. Dot's little clock chimed the hours softly in muffled tones, and each stroke seemed to fall with knife-like sharpness on his heart. Time had ceased for her, but for him it went on, wearily, ceaselessly. That was the only distinct thought which continually surged in upon him. "My days go on. My days go on."

At last with a feverish craving for air he threw open the window, and leaned out into the cold still winter night. A winding sheet of snow on the earth, purple black heavens, and stars shining out gloriously in the frosty atmosphere met his gaze. All was grand and peaceful, all contrasted strangely with his mad, fevered agony. He grew more quiet. Orion gleamed down on him pityingly, a child's voice whispered from the past, "He is my very favourite of all." Were the soft dark eyes watching him perhaps in his anguish? was the happy free spirit near him? Would all--every comfort be denied him because in his ignorance and self-reliance he refused to believe?

He shut the window once more, stood quietly for a minute beside the coffin, then stretched himself out on the hearthrug, and, before the little clock chimed again, was sleeping profoundly. The only comfort he was capable of receiving was given him--a night of unbroken rest, a short lull from his despair.

That sleep saved him; the terrible strain of his attendance on Dot, his hopeless sorrow and long wakeful nights, had brought him to the very verge of serious illness; when he awoke late on the following morning, his mind had recovered its balance, he was sufficiently strengthened to take up his heavy load of sorrow and bear it manfully. Ellis and Adela were unspeakably relieved, when they met him, to find bow great a change the night had wrought, the stony want of realisation, the frenzy of overpowering grief, had given place to a more natural sorrow, he looked indeed very much as usual only that all his former characteristics seemed deepened, the mouth looked a little more bitter, the eyes more despairing and contradictory to the rest of the face, the curious brow had more of what Dot had called its "battered" look, the whole expression was sterner and older.

For the first time he came down to breakfast and took his usual place at the table, perhaps anxious to face the rest of the party before the funeral, or with a sort of desire to go through with everything properly. They were all very kind to him, there is enough of good in most people to make them compassionate to great grief--for a time. As they left the breakfast-room a servant met them carrying some beautiful hot-house flowers.

"From Mrs. Ward, sir," she said, putting into Donovan's hands a card with, "kind enquiries and sympathy."

He looked at it for a moment, then threw it aside with bitterness which astonished Adela, and said in his most chilling tone,

"It is too late now."

"No, I think there will be room," said Adela, misunderstanding him, "we have a great number of wreaths, but I think I can arrange these flowers."

"The world's sympathy!" he replied, bitterly, clenching and unclenching his hands rapidly, as was his habit when strongly agitated, "never to come near her in all those years of suffering, but to send a showy wreath for her coffin."

"Would you rather they were not used?" asked Adela, doubtfully.

"Oh! let us take what we can get from the sympathising world," he answered, "rate it at what it's worth, only don't ask me to be grateful." And then with a fierce sigh he turned away.

The day was clear, bright, and frosty, the little churchyard at Oakdene was crowded with people, for poor little Dot's death had awakened sympathy which her life had failed to win; rumours had got about that the funeral was to be a choral one, and all the acquaintances of the Farrants who had been at the interrupted dance drove to the little country church to "show their respect" to the dead and the living, while many of the Greyshot townspeople walked over either from curiosity, or from that love of a pathetic sight which is latent in not a few hearts.

The sun shone brightly down on the snow-covered graves, on the throng of spectators, on the clergyman and the choristers, the rays fell too on the white pall laden with wreaths, on the black dresses of the mourners, and on Donovan's stern hopeless face. He would willingly have dispensed with the service, which was to him only a mockery, but the arrangement of all had helped to cheer Mrs. Farrant, and as long as he could see the last of the little coffin he was willing that the others should gratify their taste, and gather round Dot's grave with prayers and hymns and flowers. Gravely he followed the choir into the church, gravely sat in the pew while the last strains of the hymn were sung; the other mourners knelt for a minute, he was too honest to do that, but the consistency of an atheist rarely receives anything but hard words, and all the spectators were inexpressibly shocked.

He was far too miserable to notice the looks of shrinking aversion or righteous indignation which some of the congregation turned on him as the procession passed out to the grave, but just outside the porch, in a momentary pause, one whispered sentence fell on his ear.

"Oh, no; atheists are always hard and unfeeling!"

He could not help knowing that the words bore reference to him; their injustice stung him a little, and he became conscious that the eyes turned on him were hostile and unsympathising--became indeed aware for the first time that the churchyard was crowded. Well, it would soon be over. He heard nothing more till the sound of the earth falling on the coffin roused him from his own thoughts; then with a sudden pang and shudder he caught the words--"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust"--and he was one of the "men without hope."

The people bowed their heads as the clergyman read the closing prayers, but Donovan, with a wild look in his eyes, stood erect and motionless; his one longing was for solitude, and when, after the benediction, another hymn was given out, he felt that he could bear up no longer. Turning rapidly away he strode through the staring crowd. What did it matter if his action were misinterpreted? What did he care if the general sense of decorum was offended? It mattered little, for whatever he did was sure to be considered the wrong thing! "Dust to dust." How the words haunted him! Oh, to get away somewhere from his anguish--away from the cruel world with its harsh judgments, to lose himself in darkness! He rushed on wildly through the churchyard, past the long line of carriages, along the snowy road to the Manor. He was mad enough and miserable enough for any desperate deed, but whatever his intentions had been they were frustrated, for his physical strength gave way; he sank down exhausted on the floor of a little arbour in the Manor grounds.

He was roused at length by a soft stir in the place; then came a low whine, and looking up, he saw Waif beside him, his round brown eyes full of tears.

"Ah! you understand, do you, old fellow?" he exclaimed, faintly.

He allowed the dog to lick his face and hands for a minute or two, then, as the carriages were heard in the drive, he started up; he knew that Dr. L---- and one or two other visitors would return to lunch, and, though he shrank painfully from seeing them, he felt that he ought to go in. Waif's loving devotion had soothed him. Ashamed of the cowardly longing to end his life which had almost overmastered him, he struggled to his feet, patted the dog, and made his way to the drawing-room, there to do what he felt to be his duty in the way of talking to the visitors. Well for the world that it is not all made up of logically consistent men and women, well at any rate for the Donovans of the world that there are children and dumb animals who love and sympathise without question, without reservation.

Blessed little Waif! You have done a better day's work than all the throng of people in the church and churchyard, you have been the saving of your master. There is indeed One

"Who by low creatures leads to heights of love."

So, Waif, take courage and keep your eyes open, this is your day; men have for the present little to say to Donovan, they shrink from him: it is clearly intended that you should see to him, and in doing so you will be following in the steps of those other dogs who tended the deserted beggar as he lay at the rich man's gate.