'Better today. I have lived carefully, sheltered myself from the cold winds, eaten moderately of what was in season, drunk fine claret, slept in my own sheets; I shall live long. I was fifty when they dismounted us and sent us into the line; old men stay at the base, the orders said, but Walter Venables, my commanding officer, my nearest neighbour, said: "You're as fit as the youngest of them, Alex." So I was; so I am now, if I could only breathe.
'No air; no wind stirring under the velvet canopy. When the summer comes,' said Lord Marchmain, oblivious of the deep corn and swelling fruit and the surfeited bees who slowly sought their hives in the heavy afternoon sunlight outside his windows, 'when the summer comes I shall leave my bed and sit in the open air and breathe more easily.
'Who would have thought that all these little gold men, gentlemen in their own country, could live so long without breathing? Like to toads in the coal, down a deep mine, untroubled. God take it, why have they dug a hole for me? Must a man stifle to death in his own cellars? Plender, Gaston, open the windows.'
'The windows are all wide open, my lord.'
A cylinder of oxygen was placed beside his bed, with a long tube, a face-piece, and a little stop-cock he could work himself. Often he said: 'It's empty- look nurse, there's nothing comes out.'
'No, Lord Marchmain, it's quite full; the bubble here in the glass bulb shows that; it's at full pressure; listen, don't you hear it hiss? Try and breathe slowly, Lord Marchmain; quite gently, then you get the benefit.'
'Free as air; that's what they say - "free as air". Now they bring me my air in an iron barrel.'
Once he said: 'Cordelia, what became of the chapel?'
'They locked it up, papa, when mummy died.'
'It was hers, I gave it to her. We've always been builders in our family. I built it for her; in the shade of the pavilion; rebuilt with the old stones behind the old walls; it was the last of the new house to come, the first to go. There used to be a chaplain until the war. Do you remember him?'
'I was too young.'
'Then I went away - left her in the chapel praying. It was hers. It was the place for her. I never came back to disturb her prayers. They said we were fighting for freedom; I had my own victory. Was it a crime?'
'I think it was, papa.'
'Crying to heaven for vengeance? Is that why they've locked me in this cave, do you think, with a black tube of air and the little yellow men along the walls, who live without breathing? Do you think that, child? But the wind will come soon, tomorrow perhaps, and we'll breathe again. The ill wind that will blow me good. Better tomorrow.'
Thus, till mid-July, Lord Marchmain lay dying, wearing himself down in the struggle to-live. Then, since there was no reason to expect an immediate change, Cordelia went to London to see her women s organization about the coming 'emergency'. That day Lord Marchmain became suddenly worse. He lay silent and quite still, breathing laboriously; only his open eyes, which sometimes moved about the room, gave any sign of consciousness.
'Is this the end?' Julia asked.
'It is impossible to say,' the doctor answered; 'when he does die it will probably be like this. He may recover from the present attack. The only thing is not to disturb him. The least shock will be fatal.'
'I'm going for Father Mackay,' she said.
I was not surprised. I had seen it in her mind all the summer. When she had gone I said to the doctor, 'We must stop this nonsense.'
He said: 'My business is with the body. It's not my business to argue whether people are better alive or dead, or what happens to them after death. I only try to keep them alive.'
'And you said just now any shock would kill him. What could be worse for a man who fears death, as he does, than to have a priest brought to him - a priest he turned out when he had the strength?'
'I think it may kill him.'
'Then will you forbid it?'
'I've no authority to forbid anything. I can only give my opinion.'
'Cara, what do you think?'
'I don't want him made unhappy. That is all there is to hope for now; that he'll die without knowing it. But I should like the priest there, all the same.'
'Will you try and persuade Julia to keep him away - until the end? After that he can do no harm.'
'I will ask her to leave Alex happy, yes.'
In half an hour Julia was back with Father Mackay. We all met in the library.
'I've telegraphed for Bridey and Cordelia,' I said. 'I hope you agree that nothing must be done till they arrive.'
'I wish they were here, ' said Julia.
'You can't take the responsibility alone,' I said; 'everyone else is against you. Doctor Grant, tell her what you said to me just now.'
'I said that the shock of seeing a priest might well kill him; without that he may survive this attack. As his medical man I must protest against anything being done to disturb him.'
'Cara?'
'Julia, dear, I know you are thinking for the best, but, you know, Alex was not a religious man. He scoffed always. We mustn't take advantage of him, now he's weak, to comfort our own consciences. If Father Mackay comes to him when he is unconscious, then he can be buried in the proper way, can he not, Father?'
'I'll go and see how he is, ' said the doctor, leaving us.
'Father Mackay,' I said. 'You know how Lord Marchmain greeted you last time you came; do you think it possible he can have changed now?'
'Thank God, by his grace it is possible.'
'Perhaps,' said Cara, 'you could slip in while he is sleeping, say the words of absolution over him; he would never know.'
'I have seen so many men and women die,' said the priest; 'I never knew them sorry to have me there at the end.'
'But they were Catholics; Lord Marchmain has never been one except in name - at any rate, not for years. He was a scoffer, Cara said so.'
'Christ came to call, not the righteous, but sinners to repentance.'
The doctor returned. 'There's no change,' he said.
'Now doctor,' said the priest, 'how would I be a shock to anyone?' He turned his bland, innocent, matter-of-fact face first on the doctor, then upon the rest of us. 'Do you know what I want to do? It is something so small, no show about it. I don't wear special clothes, you know. I go just as I am. He knows the look of me now. There's nothing alarming. I just want to ask him if he is sorry for his sins. I want him to make some little sign of assent; I want him, anyway, not to refuse me; then I want to give him God's pardon. Then, though that's not essential, I want to anoint him. It is nothing, a touch of the fingers, just some oil from this little box, look it is nothing to hurt him.'
'Oh, Julia,' said Cara, 'what are we to say? Let me speak to him.'
She went to the Chinese drawing-room; we waited in silence; there was a wall of fire between Julia and me. Presently Cara returned.
'I don't think he heard,' she said. 'I thought I knew how to put it to him. I said: "'Alex, you remember the priest from Melstead. You were very naughty when he came to see you. You hurt his feelings very much. Now he's here again. I want you to see him just for my sake, to make friends." But he didn't answer. If he's unconscious, it couldn't make him unhappy to see the priest, could it, doctor?'
Julia, who had been standing still and silent, suddenly moved.
'Thank you for your advice, doctor,' she said. 'I take full responsibility for whatever happens. Father Mackay, will you please come and see my father now,' and without looking at me, led him to the door.
We all followed. Lord Marchmain was lying as I had seen him that morning, but his eyes were now shut; his hands lay, palms upwards, above the bed-clothes; the nurse had her fingers on the pulse of one of them. 'Come in,' she said brightly, 'you won't disturb him now.'
'D'you mean...'
'No, no, but he's past noticing anything.'
She held the oxygen apparatus to his face and the hiss of escaping gas was the only sound at the bedside.
The priest bent over Lord Marchmain and blessed him. Julia and Cara knelt at the foot of the bed. The doctor, the nurse, and I stood behind them.
'Now,' said the priest, 'I know you are sorry for all the sins of your life, aren't you? Make a sign, if you can. You're sorry, aren't you?' But there was no sign. 'Try and remember your sins; tell God you are sorry. I am going to give you absolution. While I am giving it, tell God you are sorry you have offended him.' He began to speak in Latin. I recognized the words 'ego te absolvo in nomine Patris...' and saw the priest make the sign of the cross. Then I knelt, too, and prayed: 'O God,.if there is a God, forgive him his sins, if there is such thing as sin,' and the man on the bed opened his eyes and gave a sigh, the sort of sigh I had imagined people made at the moment of death, but his eyes moved so that we knew there was still life in him.
I suddenly felt the longing for a sign, if only of courtesy, if only for the sake of the woman I loved, who knelt in front of me, praying, I knew, for a sign. It seemed so small a thing that was asked, the bare acknowledgement of a present, a nod in the crowd. I prayed more simply; 'God forgive him his sins' and 'Please God, make him accept your forgiveness.'
So small a thing to ask.
The priest took the little silver box from his pocket and spoke again in Latin, touching the dying man with an oil wad; he finished what he had to do, put away the box and gave the final blessing. Suddenly Lord Marchmain moved his hand to his forehead; I thought he had felt the touch of the chrism and was wiping it away. 'O God,' I prayed, 'don't let him do that.' But there was no need for fear; the hand moved slowly down his breast, then to his shoulder, and Lord Marchmain made the sign of the cross. Then I knew that the sign I had asked for was not a little thing, not a passing nod of recognition, and a phrase came back to me from my childhood of the veil of the temple being rent from top to bottom.
It was over; we stood up; the nurse went back to the oxygen cylinder; the doctor bent over his patient. Julia whispered to me: 'Will you see Father Mackay out? I'm staying here for a little.'
Outside the door Father Mackay became the simple, genial man I had known before. 'Well, now, and that was a beautiful thing to me. I've known it happen that way again and again. The devil resists to the last moment and then the Grace of God is too much for him. You're not a Catholic I think, Mr Ryder, but at least you'll be glad for the ladies to have the comfort of it.'
As we were waiting for the chauffeur, it occurred to me that Father Mackay should be paid for his services. I asked him awkwardly. 'Why, don't think about it, Mr Ryder. It was a pleasure,' he said, 'but anything you care to give is useful in a parish like mine.'.I found I had three pounds in my note-case and gave them to him. 'Why, indeed, that's more than generous. God bless you, Mr Ryder. I'll call again, but I don't think the poor soul has 1ong for this world.'
Julia remained in the Chinese drawing-room until, at five o'clock that evening, her father died proving both, sides right in the dispute, priest and doctor.
Thus I come to the broken sentences which were the last words spoken between Julia and me, the last memories.
When her father died Julia remained some minutes with his body; the nurse came to the next room to announce the news and I had a glimpse of her through the open door, kneeling at the foot of the bed, and of Cara sitting by her. Presently the two women came out together, and Julia said to me: 'Not now; I'm just taking Cara up to her room; later.'
While she was still upstairs Brideshead and Cordelia arrived from London; when at last we met alone it was by stealth, like young lovers.
Julia said: 'Here in the shadow, in the corner of the stair - a minute to say good-bye.'
'So long to say so little.'
'You knew?'
'Since this morning; since before this morning; all this year.'
'I didn't know till today. Oh, my dear, if you could only understand. Then I could bear to part, or bear it better. I should say my heart was breaking, if I believed in broken hearts. I can't marry you, Charles; I can't be with you ever again.'
'I know.'
'How can you know?'
'What will you do?'
'Just go on - alone. How can I tell what I shall do? You know the whole of me. You know I'm not one for a life of mourning. I've always been bad. Probably I shall be bad again, punished again. But the worse I am, the more I need God. I can't shut myself out from his mercy. That is what it would mean; starting a life with you, without him. One can only hope to see one step ahead. But I saw today there was one thing unforgivable - like things in the school-room, so bad they were unpunishable, that only mummy could deal with - the bad thing I was on the point of doing, that I'm not quite bad enough to do; to set up a rival good to God's. Why should I be allowed to understand that, and not you, Charles? It may be because of mummy, nanny, Cordelia, Sebastian - perhaps Bridey and Mrs Muspratt - keeping my name in their prayers; or it may be a private bargain between me and God, that if I give up this one thing I want so much, however bad I am, he won't quite despair of me in the end.
'Now we shall both be alone, and I shall have no way of making you understand.'
'I don't want to make it easier for you,' I said; 'I hope your heart may break; but I do understand.'
The avalanche was down, the hillside swept bare behind it; the last echoes died on the white slopes; the new mound glittered and lay still in the silent valley.
