Thérèse was most anxious that he should not be buried in St. Christophe, of which she had conceived a natural horror. There was at this time an English clergyman in the village, the chaplain of the English church at St. Pée, about whom I shall have something to say later. With him I concerted what was to be done, and he obtained the necessary papers from the mairie. And all this time, across the road from the stone house in which Henry Maitland lay dead, I heard the sound of his coffin being made in the little carpenter's shop which stood there. When all was done that could be done, and everything was in order, I went to the little hotel and had my lunch all alone, and afterwards dined alone and slept that night in the same hotel. The next day, late in the afternoon, I went down to St. Pée d'Ascain in charge of his body. During this journey the young doctor who had attended Maitland accompanied me part of the way, and for the rest of it his nurse was my companion. At St. Pée d'Ascain, where it was then quite dark, we were received by the clergyman, who had preceded us, and by a hearse, into which we carried Maitland's body. I accompanied it to the English chapel, where it remained all night before the altar. I slept at my old hotel, where I was known, as I had stayed there at the time I last saw Maitland alive.
In the morning a service was held for him according to the rites of the English Church. This was the desire of Thérèse and Madame Espinel, who, if it had been possible, I think would have desired to bury him according to the rites of the Catholic Church. Maitland, of course, had no orthodox belief. He refused to think of these things, for they were disturbing and led no-whither. Attending this service there were many English people, some who knew him, and some again who did not know him but went there out of respect for his name and reputation, and perhaps because they felt that they and he were alike in exile. We buried him in the common cemetery of St. Pée, a place not unbeautiful, nor unbeautifully situated. And while the service went on over his grave I was somehow reminded of the lovely cemetery at Lisbon where another English man of letters lies in a tomb far from his own country. I speak of Fielding.
I left Thérèse and Madame Espinel still at St. Christophe, and did not see them again before I started for England. They, I knew, would probably return to Paris, or perhaps would go to relatives of theirs in Spain. I could help them no more, and by now I discovered that my winter journey, or perhaps even my short visit to the death-chamber of Henry Maitland, had given me some kind of pulmonary catarrh which in my overwrought and nervous state seemed likely, perhaps, to result in something more serious. Therefore, having done all that I could, and having seen him put in the earth, I returned home hurriedly. On reaching England I was very ill for many days, but recovered without any serious results. Soon afterwards some one, I know not who it was, sent me a paragraph published in a religious paper which claimed Maitland as a disciple of the Church, for it said that he had died "in the fear of God's holy name, and with the comfort and strength of the Catholic faith." When some men die there are for ever crows and vultures about. Although I was very loath to say anything which would raise an angry discussion, I felt that this could not be passed by and that he would not have wished it to be passed by. Had he not written of a certain character in one of his books "that he should be buried as a son of the Church, to whom he had never belonged, was a matter of indignation"? That others felt as I did is proved by a letter I got from his friend Edmund Roden, who wrote to me: "You have seen the report that the ecclesiastical buzzards have got hold of Henry Maitland in articulo mortis and dragged him into the fold."
My own views upon religion did not matter. They were stronger and more pronounced, and, it may be, more atheistical than his own. Nevertheless I knew what he felt about these things, and in consequence wrote the following letter to the editor of the paper which had claimed him for the Church: "My attention has been drawn to a statement in your columns that Henry Maitland died in communion with the Church of England, and I shall be much obliged if you will give to this contradiction the same publicity you granted, without investigation, to the calumny. I was intimate with Maitland for thirty years, and had every opportunity of noting his attitude towards all theological speculation. He not only accepted none of the dogmas formulated in the creeds and articles of the Church of England, but he considered it impossible that any Church's definition of the undefinable could have any significance for any intelligent man. During the whole of our long intimacy I never knew him to waver from that point of view.
"What communication may have reached you from any one who visited Maitland during his illness I do not know. But I presume you do not maintain that a change in his theological standpoint can reasonably be inferred from any words which he may have been induced to speak in a condition in which, according to the law of every civilised country, he would have been incompetent to sign a codicil to his will.
"The attempt to draw such a deduction will seem dishonest to every fair-minded man; and I rely upon your courtesy to publish this vindication of the memory of an honest and consistent thinker which you have, however unintentionally, aspersed."
Of course this letter was refused publication. The editor answered it in a note in which he maintained the position that the paper had taken up, stating that he was thoroughly satisfied with the sources of his information. Naturally enough I knew what those sources were, and I wrote a letter in anger to the chaplain of St. Pée, which, I fear, was full of very gross insults.
Seeing that the paper refused my letter admission to its columns, on the advice of certain other people I wrote to a London daily saying: "As the intimate friend of Henry Maitland for thirty years, I beg to state definitely that he had not the slightest intellectual sympathy with any creed whatsoever. From his early youth he had none, save for a short period when, for reasons other than intellectual, he inclined to a vague and nebulous Positivism. His mental attitude towards all theological explanations was more than critical, it was absolutely indifferent; he could hardly understand how any one in the full possession of his faculties could subscribe to any formulated doctrines. No more than John Stuart Mill or Herbert Spencer could he have entered into communion with any Church."
Of course I knew, as any man must know who is acquainted with humanity and its frailties, that it was possible for Maitland, during the last few poisoned hours of his life, to have gone back in his delirium upon the whole of his previous convictions. He knew that he was dying. When he asked to know the truth he had been told it. In such circumstances some men break down. There are what people call death-bed repentances. Therefore I did my best to satisfy myself as to whether anything whatever had occurred which would give any colour to these theologic lies. I could not trouble Thérèse upon this particular point, but it occurred to me that the nurse, who was a very intelligent woman, must be in a position to know something of the matter, and I therefore wrote to her asking her to tell me all she knew. She replied to me about the middle of January, telling me that she had just then had a long talk with Mrs. Maitland, and giving me the following facts.
It appears that on Monday, December 21, Maitland was so ill that a consultation was thought necessary, and that both the doctors agreed that it was impossible for the patient to live through the night, though in fact he did not die till nearly a week afterwards. On Thursday, December 24, the chaplain was sent for, not for any religious reasons, or because Maitland had called for him, but simply because Thérèse thought that he might find some pleasure in seeing an English face. When the clergyman came it did indeed have this effect, for Maitland's face lit up and he shook him heartily by the hand. At this moment the young doctor came in and told the clergyman privately that Maitland had no chance whatever, and that it was a wonder that he was still alive. It is quite certain that there was no religious conversation between the clergyman and the patient at this time. The nurse arrived at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning, and insisted on absolute quietness in the room. The clergyman simply peeped in at the door to say good-bye, for at that time Mr. Rivers was in charge in the bedroom.