But there was only Maurice asking, in his shrunk little voice of delirium, for something to drink.
(5)
It was always rather dark in St. Thomas's, and what daylight remained to the December afternoon hung nearly vanquished in the little church. It had been much lighter when Tristram, unlocking the door, had come in over the planks laid along the aisle for a causeway in time of flood, and, passing the disproportionate pulpit, had entered the chancel and knelt down at the altar rails.
Many hours had he spent there during the last two days, holding up before God not his own suffering but that of the woman who suffered for him. Now he could pray no more, but he still knelt, a suppliant at the door of the Divine Pity, a beggar at the Heavenly Gate.
But as the light withdrew itself more and more from the sanctuary, till at last the bare table itself was scarcely visible, he became gradually conscious that this church was not more still than that inner place into which he found himself somehow to have passed, a place of great quietness, of which he had never before possessed the key—the innermost room in the house of his soul. He did not know how he had gained entrance to it—perhaps because he had ceased to strive—he only knew that he was there, that he could never again lose the way thither, and that this chamber held for him that open vision which he had sought so often and never found.
As he left St. Thomas's he remembered that he must go to Christ Church and ask if the Precentor, who was indisposed, was likely to be well enough to preach the charity sermon on Christmas Day, or whether he wished him to do it. So he walked once more up the way of sorrows that he had traversed three or four days ago, and came out in just the same manner on the front of Christ Church. Lights were beginning to twinkle there, and down the narrow dusk of St. Aldate's, along which he had so often ridden. In Tom Quad he met Mr. Pusey, who responded to his salutation by wishing him a happy Christmas, passed on and then turned back.
"By the way, Mr. Hungerford," he said, "I am afraid the Grenvilles at Compton Regis are in sad trouble—but perhaps you know it? I heard from my brother this morning that the little boy, Madame de la Roche-Guyon's child, is very ill—dying, they fear."
The pain in his voice and eyes (his own little Katharine's death being only a year-old wound) was lost on Tristram who, after a moment's horror, forgetful alike of his errand and of himself, had turned and hurried back into St. Aldate's to the nearest livery-stable for a horse.
He probably galloped most of the fifteen miles on the hard December road, for he got there by half-past six. Anyhow the hack came down with him in the dark just outside Compton village, and Tristram, merciful man though he was, left it to the two or three yokels who had collected and hastened on, oblivious of a slightly wrenched knee. Sick at the thought of what he might hear he rang the bell at the Rectory. Mr. Grenville himself answered it.
"O, my dear Tristram!" he exclaimed, his eyes brimming with tears. "Have you heard—is that why you have come? ... No, the child is alive ... the doctor is here now.—Forgive me, come in...."