“What?” he said, in a toneless mutter.
She repeated her sentences, word for word, in a voice that had lost its life.
He sat looking before him; and his frame relaxed; as though he were sinking passively to utter hopelessness. Suddenly he turned to her, and sat leaning towards her, as though the whole of his being were straining in question towards the whole of hers. She knew the question as if he had spoken it. There was then in all her feeling towards him no love for him?
She rose and left the room; neither breaking through the doorway, nor throwing a farewell glance at the figure at the desk; but walking slowly and helplessly, as though the meaning of movement were gone.
She went to her own study and fastened the door.
Chapter XV
Five years had gone, unmarked by word between Dolores and Claverhouse. From the recoil and quiver of the inner soul come the issues in the world that is seen. In their differing bondage of seeming to choose to forsake, and feeling lightly forsaken; with their differing helplessness before the barrier of his blindness; with their same night-searching of their fellowship’s strange restraint, lest the one soul had read the other falsely as a mirror of itself; they lived in silence; while there grew into each heart, as a part of itself, its aching hourly questioning of the other.
At the end of five years, the utter sameness broke. At the end of five years, Soulsby — who at a word from Dolores before the years began, that marriage was against her heart, had gathered his shrinking being to himself; and gone from her sight to live for service to his friend; tongue-tied as always upon anything that could hint that he had a life of his own, — was again of good courage; and was seen in the neighbourhood of Millfield Parsonage.
Five years had gone unmarked. On the path through Millfield churchyard, that led from the road to the parsonage, there walked a man and a woman. As the man spoke, his tones fell grave and musical.
“Yes; it has been a sad life — a life full — full of such troubles as must be borne alone, and in which friendship seems of little help. It is a great grief to me — the greatest grief I have known, to watch him failing.”
“You cannot say that your friendship has been of little help,” said Dolores, unable to withhold from her voice a deep, personal gratitude.
“Some years ago I should not have said it,” said Soulsby, with his easier utterance of trouble. “But of late it has been so. I am not enough for him, as once I was. How it is I do not know. He seems to be lonely. He shows a longing for — for something or some one, of whom he never speaks. And it is not for — for his wife. At least — at least, I think I may say so. His sorrow for her was different; and it was over before this last change began. I do not understand. It is the one thing in which I have not his confidence.”
“He is really failing, is he?” said Dolores, looking away from her companion to the ruddy evening sky.
“Yes, he is failing,” said Soulsby. “He never leaves his house now; and he has given up teaching. And it is more than that. There is disease — a disease of the heart, which must be fatal. It may be soon, or in years; but it must be in the end. And he does not struggle to live. He feels his life holds nothing, now he is blind.”
“He is quite blind?” said Dolores.
“He can distinguish light and darkness — nothing more. He cannot read; and writing is no good to him — or so he says — as he cannot judge what is written. He has done very little since the issuing four years ago of his great play. It is a thing that will not bear words — that he has not power to give the time that is left him, to using his genius.”
“But do not you read to him what he has written?” said Dolores, with a note that was almost a cry in her voice. “Cannot you make what changes he wishes? I cannot see that blindness is utterly preventive of his writing.”
“No,” said Soulsby, with simple sadness; “I cannot — more than a little. He does not — does not allow me. I–I am — he does not feel me in sympathy with him — in my mind, I mean. He feels I do not follow him — and indeed often I do not; and the feeling repels him. He seems to shrink from revealing to me his conceptions while they are growing. Even — even in the old days, I only heard what he chose to read to me. And — and even then, he was often impatient of what I said and thought — even before — before feebleness and privation had made him hasty.”
Dolores was silent; living in the sad picture which had grown to be a part of her consciousness. She lived in it with a heavy, simple grief. She had no wonder how the playwright in his blind and penniless age, came by daily bread and tendance; not needing to hear the words which she knew could not pass her companion’s lips. As her eyes were drawn to the fine, spare figure, with the grey hair in scantier waves, and the saddened, older face, a rush of feeling came — a rush which she had been forcing back through many days. She yielded now. She let herself watch the other picture, which lay before her mind’s vision — her own life bound with the life of this noble creature, who alone of those she knew of her kind, had given her more than she gave — her own life holding the tenderness and cherishing it had never held — carrying for the history of the first of its changed chapters, the deliverance of the greater life, that had waned too far to be knit except thus with her own. She could not but see the picture; and as she walked on, shrinking from breaking the silence whose significance she knew, her thoughts hovered round it, and drew it into the range of the possible and near.
For changes had grown in the parsonage household, in the five years in which Dolores had been its mistress. The Reverend Cleveland had buried his second bereavement more easily and finally than his first; and was a happier and less unresponsive man in his doubly widowed days. Bertram was absorbed in the fair and prosperous ordering of his own life; Cleveland, with full, and quite unemotional paternal consent, had been adopted by the Very Reverend James; and of the young sisters, Evelyn was betrothed and on the point of marriage to Herbert Blackwood, and Sophia had grown into a womanhood beyond her years, and into much of the place in her father’s heart which in the earlier time had been Dolores’.
For there was a further difference between the Mr Hutton of to-day, and the husband and father of the days of his second wife. The close of the second passage of his wedded experience, by its removal of the check upon remembrance of the first, had seemed to rob the latter of its earlier sanctity. Both were sunk in memory; and for a man of his history and years, he lived little in the past. Dolores’ place in his life was hardly larger than her sisters’; many of his old qualities, in chief his moroseness and liking for thoughtful companionship, were far less marked; and Sophia was of an age and nature to sustain easily the lightened burden, and fitly the greater dignity. Dolores felt that her will was her own; that this feebler and later promise of brightening in her path was undimmed by looming shadows. When Soulsby spoke, she felt it was her right to hear him without struggle.
“Claverhouse has not — has not done and suffered what he has, without giving me a share of his troubles. I miss his friendship — the real friendship that once I had, deeply. I am thrown much on myself. I have never been a man of — a man of friends. I am — I am lonely. I have — I hope I may have — a hope—”
He broke off. It was not his earliest effort. The task was barely in his power.
They had reached the gate that opened from the churchyard to the road. Dolores gave him her hand. He pressed it with a deepening of his usual deprecating deference, glanced into her face as he lifted his hat, and while she passed through the bushes from his sight, remained still and bareheaded.