Rabindranath Tagore - "The Fugitive"

William Day Simonds - "Starr King in California"

Lew. Wallace - "The Prince of India"

Suelette Dreyfus - "Underground"

The Altar Fire

A >> Arthur Christopher Benson >> The Altar Fire




A little while after he roused himself from a slumber to say, "You
will be surprised to find yourself named in my will; please don't
have any scruples about accepting the inheritance. I want my niece,
of course, to reign in my stead; but if you outlive her, all is to
go to you. I want you to live on in this place, to stand by her in
her loneliness, as a brother by a sister. I want you to help and
work for my dear people here, to be tender and careful for them.
There are many things that a man can do which a woman cannot; and
your difficulty will be to find a hem for your life. Remember that
there is no one who is injured by this--my niece is my only living
relation; so accept this as your post in life; it will not be a
hard one. It is strange," he added, "that one should cling to such
trifles; but I should like you to take my name, if you will; and
you must find some one to succeed you; I wish it could have been
your own boy, whom I have learnt to love."

Miss ---- came in shortly after, and Mr. ---- said to her, "Yes, I
have told him, and he consents. You do consent, do you not?" I
said, "Yes, dear friend, of course I consent; and consent
gratefully, for you have given me a work in the world." And then I
took Miss ----'s hand across the bed and kissed it; the old man
laid his hands upon our heads very tenderly and said, "Brother and
sister to the end."

I thought he was tired then, and made as if to leave him, but he
said, "Do not go, my son." He lay smiling to himself, as if well
pleased. Then a sudden change came over his face, and I saw that he
was going; we knelt beside him, and his last words were words of
blessing.



October 12, 1891.


This book has been my companion through some very strange, sad,
terrible, and joyful hours; my faithful companion, my silent
friend, my true confessor. I have felt the need of utterance, the
imperative instinct--the most primitive, the most childish of
instincts--to tell my pains and hopes and dreams. I could not utter
them, at the time, to another. I could not let the voice of my
groaning reach the ears of any human being. Perhaps it would have
been better for us both, if I could have said it all to my dearest
Maud. But a sort of courtesy forbade my redoubling my monotonous
lamentations; her burden was heavy enough without that. I can
hardly dignify it with the name of manliness or chivalry, because
my frame of mind during those first months, when I lost the power
of writing, was purely despicable; and then, too, I did not want
sympathy; I wanted help; and help no one but God could give me;
half my time was spent in a kind of dumb prayer to Him, that He
would give me some sort of strength, some touch of courage; for a
helpless cowardice was the note of my frame of mind. Well, He has
sent me strength--I recognise that now--not by lightening the load,
but by making it insupportably heavy and yet showing me that I had
the strength to carry it; I am still in the dark as to why I
deserved so sore a punishment, and I cannot yet see that the
loneliness to which He has condemned me is the help that is
proportioned to my need. But I walk no longer in a vain shadow. I
have known affliction by the rod of His wrath. But the darkness in
which I walk is not the darkness of thickening gloom, but the
darkness of the breaking day.

And then, too, I suppose that writing down my thoughts from day to
day just eased the dumb pain of inaction, as the sick man shifts
himself in his bed. Anyhow it is written, and it shall stand as a
record.

But now I shall write no more. I shall slip gratefully and securely
into the crowd of inarticulate and silent men and women, the vast
majority, after all, of humanity. One who like myself has the
consciousness of receiving from moment to moment sharp and clear
impressions from everything on earth, people, houses, fields,
trees, clouds, is beset by a kind of torturing desire to shape it
all in words and phrases. Why, I know not! It is the desire, I
suppose, to make some record of what seems so clear, so distinct,
so beautiful, so interesting. One cannot bear that one impression
that seems so vivid and strange should be lost and perish. It is
the artistic instinct, no doubt. And then one passes through the
streets of a great city, and one becomes aware that of the
thousands that pass one by, perhaps only one or two have the same
instinct, and even they are bound to silence by circumstance, by
lack of opportunity. The rest--life is enough for them; hunger and
thirst, love and strife, hope and fear, that is their daily meat.
And life, I doubt not, is what we are set to taste. Of all those
thousands, some few have the desire, and fewer still the power, to
stand apart from the throng. These are not content with the humdrum
life of earning a livelihood, of forming ties, of passing the time
as pleasantly as they can. They desire rather to be felt, to
exercise influence, to mould others to their will, to use them for
their convenience. I have had little temptation to do that, but my
life has been poisoned at its source, I now discern, by the desire
to differentiate myself from others. I could not walk faithfully in
the procession; I was as one who likes to sit securely in his
window above the street, noting all that he sees, sketching all
that strikes his fancy, hugging his pleasure at being apart from
and superior to the ordinary run of mortals. Here lay my chiefest
fault, that I could not bear a humble hand, but looked upon my
wealth, my loving circle, as things that should fence me from the
throng. I lived in a paradise of my own devising.

But now I have put that all aside for ever. I will live the life of
a learner; I will be docile if I can. I might indeed have been
stripped of everything, bidden to join the humblest tribe of
workers for daily bread. But God has spared my weakness, and I
should be faithless indeed, if, seeing how intently His will has
dealt with me, I did not recognise the clear guiding of His hand.
He has given me a place and a quiet work to do; these strange
bereavements, one after another, have not hardened me. I feel the
bonds of love for those whom I have lost drawn closer every hour.
They are waiting for me, I am sure of that. It is not reason, it is
not faith which prompts me; it is a far deeper and stronger
instinct, which I could not doubt if I would. What wonder if I look
forward with an eager and an ardent hope to death. I can conceive
no more welcome tidings than the tidings that death was at hand.
But I do not expect to die. My health of body is almost
miraculously preserved. What I dare to hope is that I may learn by
slow degrees to set the happiness of others above my own. I will
listen for any sound of grief or discontent, and I will try to
quiet it. I will spend my time and strength as freely as I can.
That is a far-off hope. One cannot in a moment break through the
self-consideration of a lifetime. But whereas, before, my dim
sense that happiness could not be found by deliberately searching
for ease made me half rebellious, half uncomfortable, I know now
that it is true, and I will turn my back if I can upon that lonely
and unsatisfied quest. I did indeed--I can honestly say that--
desire with a passionate intentness the happiness of Maud and the
children; but I think I desired it most in order that the sunshine
of their happiness should break in warmth and light upon myself. It
will be hard enough--I can see that--not to labour still for the
sake of the ultimate results upon my own peace of mind. But in my
deepest heart I do not desire to do that, and I will not, God
helping me.

And so to-day, having read the whole record once again, with
blinding tears, tears of love, I think, not tears of self-pity, I
will close the book and write no more. But I will not destroy it,
because it may help some soul that may come after me, into whose
hands it may fall, to struggle on in the middle of sorrow and
darkness. To him will I gladly reveal all that God has done for my
soul. That poor, pitiful, shrinking soul, with all its faint
desires after purity and nobleness and peace, all its self-wrought
misery, all its unhappy failures, all its secret faults, its
undiscerned weaknesses, I put humbly and confidently in the hands
of the God who made me. I cannot amend myself, but I can at least
co-operate with His loving Will. I can stumble onwards, with my
hand in His, like a timid child with a strong and loving father. I
may wish to be lifted in His arms, I may wonder why He does not
have more pity on my frailty. But I can believe that He is leading
me home, and that His way is the best and nearest.


THE END

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