Father Payne - Arthur Christopher Benson (uplifting novels .TXT) 📗

the worst disaster. I knew in my heart that it was the end. It seemed to me characteristic of Father Payne to make his farewells simply, and without any dramatic emphasis. The way in which he had spoken of all his friends, in that last hour we spent with him, had been a series of adieux, and even as I recalled his words, they seemed to me to shape themselves into unspoken messages. His own calmness had been unmistakable, and was marvellous to me; but it was all the more impressive because he did not, as one has read in some of the well-known scenes recorded in history of the deaths of famous men, seem to be attempting to say anything memorable or magnanimous. "What can I say that will be worthy of myself?"--that question appears to me to be sometimes lurking in the minds of men who have played a great part in the world, and who are determined to play it to the end. It is, of course a noble sort of courage which enables a man, at the very threshold of death, to force himself to behave with dignity and grandeur: but it seemed to me now to be an even more supreme courage to be, as Father Payne was, simply himself. Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Thomas More, Charles II, Archbishop Laud all died with a real greatness of undismayed bravery, but with just a sense of enacting a part rehearsed. The death scene of Socrates, which is, I suppose, a romantically constructed tale, does indeed give a picture of perfect naturalness: and I thought that Father Payne's demeanour, like that of Socrates, showed clearly enough that the idea of death was not an overshadowing dread dispelled by an effort of the will, but that it was not present as a fear in his mind at all, and rather regarded with a reverent curiosity: and I was reminded of a saying of Father Payne's which I have elsewhere recorded, that the virtues to which we give our most unhesitating admiration are the instinctive virtues rather than the reasoned virtues. If Father Payne had appeared to be keeping a firm hold on himself, and to be obliging himself to speak things timely and fitting, I should have admired him deeply: but I admired him all the more because of his unaffected tranquillity and unuttered affection. He had just enveloped us in his own calmness, and gone straight forward.

We made our journey almost in silence: Barthrop was too much moved to speak: and my own mind was dim with trouble, at all that we were to lose, and yet drawn away into an infinite loyalty and tenderness for one who had been more than a father to me.


LXXII


THE CROSSING

The end is soon told. On the following day, we thought it best to tell our two companions and the Vicar what was happening, and we also told the old butler that Father Payne was ill. It was a day of infinite dreariness to me, with outbursts of sharp emotion at the sight of everything so closely connected with Father Payne, and with the thought that he would see them no more.

I was sitting in my room on the Friday morning, after a sleepless night, when Barthrop came in and handed me a telegram from the doctor. "Mr. Payne never recovered consciousness, and died an hour after the operation. All details arranged. Please await letter." I raised my eyes to Barthrop's face, but saw that he could not speak. I could say nothing either: my mind and heart seemed to crumble suddenly into a hopeless despair.

A letter reached us the same evening by train. It was to the effect that Father Payne had written down some exact directions the day before and given them to the matron. He did not wish, in case of his death, that anyone should see his body: he wished to be placed in the simplest of coffins, as soon as possible, and that the coffin should be sent down by train to Aveley, be taken from the station straight to the church, and if possible to be buried at once. But even so, that was only his wish, and he particularly desired to avoid alike all ceremony and inconvenience. But besides that there were two notes enclosed addressed in Father Payne's hand to Barthrop and myself, which ran as follows:

"My dear Leonard,--_I thought it very good of you to come up to
see me, and no less good of you to go away as I desired. It is
possible, of course, that I may return to you, and all be as
before. But to be frank, I do not think it will be so. Even if I
survive, I shall, I think, be much weakened by this operation,
and shall have the possibility of a recurrence of the disease
hanging over me. Much as I love life, and the world where I have
found it pleasant to live, I do not want to lead a broken sort of
existence, with invalid precautions and limitations. I think that
this would bring out all that is worst in me, and would lead to
unhappiness both in myself and in all those about me. If it has
to be so, I shall do my best, but I think it would be a
discreditable performance. I do not, however, think that I shall
have this trial laid upon me. I feel that I am summoned
elsewhere, and I am glad to think that my passage will be a swift
one. I am not afraid of what lies beyond, because I believe death
to be simple and natural enough, and a perfectly definite thing.
Of what lies beyond it, I can form no idea; all our theories are
probably quite wide of the mark. But it will be the same for me
as it has been for all others who have died, and as it will some
day be for you; and when we know, we shall be surprised that we
did not see what it would be. I confess that I love the things
that I know, and dislike the unknown. The world is very dear and
familiar, and it has been kind and beautiful to me, as well as
full of interest. But I expect that things will be much
simplified. And please bear this in mind, that such a scene which
we went through yesterday is worse for those who stand by and can
do nothing than for the man himself; and you will believe me when
I say that I am neither afraid nor unhappy._

"_With regard to my wishes about the place being kept on, on
its present lines, remember that it is only a wish, and not to be
regarded as a binding obligation or undertaken against your
judgment. I trust you fully in this, as I have always trusted
you; and I will just thank you, once and for all, for all that
you have done and been. I shall always think of you with deep
gratitude and lasting affection. God bless you now and always.
Your old friend,_

"CHARLES PAYNE."

To me he had written:

"My dear boy,--_Please read my letter to Barthrop, which is
meant for you as well. I won't repeat myself--you know I dislike
that. But I would like just to say that you have been more like a
son to me than anyone I ever have known, and I thank God for
bringing you into my life, and for all your kind and faithful
affection. You must just go on as you have begun; and I can only
say that if I still have any knowledge of what goes on in the
world, my affection and interest will not fail; and if I have
not, I shall believe that we shall still find each other again,
and rejoice in mutual knowledge and confidence. You are very dear
to me, and always will be._

"_Settle everything with Leonard. I know that you will be able
to interpret my wishes as I should wish them to be interpreted.
Your affectionate old friend,_

"C. PAYNE."

The last act was simple enough. The preparations were soon made. The coffin arrived at midday, and was buried in the afternoon, between the church and the Hall. It was sad and beautiful to see the heartfelt grief of the villagers: and it was wonderful to me that at that moment I recovered a kind of serenity on the surface of the grief below, so that in the still afternoon as we walked away from the grave it seemed to me strange rather than sorrowful. With those last letters in mind, it seemed to me almost traitorous to mourn. He at least had his heart's desire, and I did not doubt that he was abundantly satisfied.


LXXIII


AFTER-THOUGHTS

Barthrop and I decided that we could not hope to continue the scheme. We had neither the force nor the experience. The whole society was, we felt, just the expression of Father Payne's personality, and without it, it had neither stability nor significance. Barthrop and the Vicar were left money legacies: the servants all received little pensions: there was a sum for distribution in the village, and a fund endowed to meet certain practical needs of the place. We handed over the estate to Father Payne's old College, the furniture and pictures to go with the house, which was to be let, if possible, to a tenant who would be inclined to settle there and make it his home: the income of the estate was to provide travelling scholarships. All had been carefully thought out with much practical sense and insight.

Our other two companions went away. Barthrop and I stayed on at the Hall together for some weeks to settle the final arrangements. We had some wonderfully touching letters from old pupils and friends of Father Payne's. One in particular, saying that the writer owed an infinite debt of gratitude to Father Payne, for having saved him from himself and given him a new life.

We talked much of Father Payne in those days; and I went alone to all the places where I had walked with him, recalling more gratefully than sadly how he had looked and moved and talked and smiled.

It came to the last night that we were to spend at the Hall together. Everything had been gone through and arranged, and we were glad, I think, to be departing.

"I don't know what to say and think about it all," said Barthrop; "I feel at present quite lost and stranded, as if my motive for living were gone, and as if I could hardly take up my work again. I know it is wrong, and I am ashamed of it. Father Payne always said that we must not depend helplessly upon persons or institutions, but must find our own real life and live it--you remember?"

"Yes," I said, "indeed I do remember! But I do not think he ever realised quite how strong he was, and how he affected those