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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 19:06:41 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 19:06:41 -0700 |
| commit | 3be562316d04976fbb1d3c0e85a5bb49d4f6ee7f (patch) | |
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diff --git a/48483-h/48483-h.htm b/48483-h/48483-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..923106a --- /dev/null +++ b/48483-h/48483-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7736 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + A Life for a Life, by Dinah Maria Craik + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48483 ***</div> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + A LIFE FOR A LIFE + </h1> + <h2> + By Dinah Maria Craik + </h2> + <h4> + The Author Of “John Halifax, Gentleman,” “A Woman's Thoughts About Women,” + &c., &c. + </h4> + <h3> + In Three Volumes. Vol. III. + </h3> + <h5> + London: Hurst And Blackett, Publishers, <br /> <br /> 1859 + </h5> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. HER STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. HIS STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. HER STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. HIS STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. HER STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. HIS STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. HER STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. HIS STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. HER STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. HIS STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. HIS STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. HER STORY. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. HER STORY. + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>any, many weeks, + months indeed have gone by since I opened this my journal. Can I bear the + sight of it even now? Yes; I think I can. + </p> + <p> + I have been sitting ever so long at the open window, in my old attitude, + elbow on the sill; only with a difference that seems to come natural now, + when no one is by. It is such a comfort to sit with my lips on my ring. I + asked him to give me a ring, and he did so. Oh! Max, Max, Max! + </p> + <p> + Great and miserable changes have befallen us, and now Max and I are not + going to be married. Penelope's marriage also has been temporarily + postponed, for the same reason, though I implored her not to tell it to + Francis, unless he should make very particular inquiries, or be + exceedingly angry at the delay. He was not. Nor did we judge it well to + inform Lisabel. Therefore, papa, Penelope, and I, keep our own secret. + </p> + <p> + Now that it is over, the agony of it smothered up, and all at Rockmount + goes on as heretofore, I sometimes wonder, do strangers, or intimates, + Mrs. Granton for instance, suspect anything? Or is ours, awful as it + seems, no special and peculiar lot? Many another family may have its own + lamentable secret, the burthen of which each member has to bear, and carry + in society a cheerful countenance, even as this of mine. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Granton said yesterday, mine was “a cheerful countenance.” If so, I + am glad. Two things only could really have broken my heart—his + ceasing to love me, and his changing so in <i>himself</i>, not in his + circumstances, that I could no longer worthily love him. By “him,” I mean, + of course Max. Max Urquhart, my betrothed husband, whom henceforward I can + never regard in any other light. + </p> + <p> + How blue the hills are, how bright the moors! So they ought to be, for it + is near midsummer. By this day fortnight—Penelope's marriage-day—we + shall have plenty of roses. All the better; I would not like it to be a + dull wedding, though so quiet; only the Trehernes and Mrs. Granton as + guests, and me for the solitary bridesmaid. + </p> + <p> + “Your last appearance I hope, Dora, in that capacity,” laughed the dear + old lady. “'Thrice a bridesmaid, ne'er a bride,' which couldn't be thought + of, you know. No need to speak—I guess why your wedding isn't talked + about yet.—The old story, man's pride, and woman's patience. Never + mind. Nobody knows anything but me, and I shall keep a quiet tongue in the + matter. Least said is soonest mended. All will come right soon, when the + Doctor is a little better off in the world.” + </p> + <p> + I let her suppose so. It is of little moment what she or anybody thinks, + so that it is nothing ill of him. + </p> + <p> + “Thrice a bridesmaid, never a bride.” Even so. Yet, would I change lots + with our bride Penelope, or any other bride? No. + </p> + <p> + Now that my mind has settled to its usual level; has had time to view + things calmly, to satisfy itself that nothing could have been done + different from what has been done; I may, at last, be able to detail these + events. For both Max's sake and my own, it seems best to do it, unless I + could make up my mind to destroy my whole journal. An unfinished record is + worse than none. During our lifetimes we shall both preserve our secret; + but many a chance brings dark things to light; and I have my Max's honour + to guard, as well as my own. + </p> + <p> + This afternoon, papa being out driving, and Penelope gone to town to seek + for a maid, whom the Governor's lady will require to take out with her—they + sail a month hence—I shall seize the opportunity to write down what + has befallen Max and me. + </p> + <p> + My own poor Max! But my lips are on his ring; this hand is as safely kept + for him as when he first held it in his breast. + </p> + <p> + Let me turn back a page, and see where it was I left off writing my + journal. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I did so; and it was more than I could bear at the time. I have had to + take another day for this relation, and even now it is bitter enough to + recall the feelings with which I put my pen by, so long ago, waiting for + Max to come in “at any minute.” + </p> + <p> + I waited ten days; not unhappily, though the last two were somewhat + anxious, but it was simply lest anything might have gone wrong with him or + his affairs. As for his neglecting or “treating me ill,” as Penelope + suggested, such a thought never entered my head. How could he treat me + ill?—he loved me. + </p> + <p> + The tenth day, which was the end of the term he had named for his journey, + I of course fully expected him.' I knew if by any human power it could be + managed, I should see him; he never would break his word. I rested on his + love as surely as in waking from that long sick swoon I had rested on his + breast. I knew he would be tender over me, and not let me suffer one more + hour's suspense or pain that he could possibly avoid. + </p> + <p> + It may here seem strange that I had never asked Max where he was going, + nor anything of the business he was going upon. Well, that was his secret, + the last secret that was ever to be between us; so I chose not to + interfere with it, but to wait his time. Also, I did not fret much about + it, whatever it was. He loved me. People who have been hungry for love, + and never had it all their lives, can understand the utterly satisfied + contentment of this one feeling—Max loved me. + </p> + <p> + At dusk, after staying in all day, I went out, partly because Penelope + wished it, and partly for health's sake. I never lost a chance of getting + strong now. My sister and I walked along silently, each thinking of her + own affairs, when, at a turn in the road which led, not from the camp, but + from the moorlands, she cried out, “I do believe there is Doctor + Urquhart.” + </p> + <p> + If he had not heard his name, I think he would have passed us without + knowing us. And the face that met mine, when he looked up—I never + shall forget it to my dying day. + </p> + <p> + It made me shrink back for a minute, and then I said:— + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Max, have you been ill?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know. Yes—possibly.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you come back?” + </p> + <p> + “I forget—oh! four days ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you coming to Rockmount?” + </p> + <p> + “Rockmount?—oh! no.” He shuddered, and dropped my hand. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Urquhart seems in a very uncertain frame of mind,” said Penelope, + severely, from the other side the road. “We had better leave him. Come, + Dora.” + </p> + <p> + She carried me off, almost forcibly. She was exceedingly displeased. Four + days, and never to have come or written! She said it was slighting me and + insulting the family. + </p> + <p> + “A man, too, of whose antecedents and connections we knew nothing. He may + be a mere adventurer—a penniless Scotch adventurer; Francis always + said he was.” + </p> + <p> + “Francis is—” But I could not stay to speak of him, or to reply to + Penelope's bitter words. All I thought was how to get back to Max, and + entreat him to tell me what had happened. He would tell <i>me</i>. He + loved <i>me</i>. So, without any feeling of “proper pride,” as Penelope + called it, I writhed myself out of her grasp, ran hack to Doctor Urquhart, + and took possession of his arm, my arm, which I had a right to. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, Theodora?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is I.” And then I said, I wanted him to go home with me, and tell + me what had happened. + </p> + <p> + “Better not; better go home with your sister.” + </p> + <p> + “I had rather stay here. I mean to stay here.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, took both my hands, and forced a smile:—“You are the + determined little lady you always were; but you do not know what you are + saying. You had better go and leave me.” + </p> + <p> + I was sure then some great misery was approaching us. I tried to read it + in his face. “Do you—” did he still love me; I was about to ask, but + there was no need. So my answer, too, was brief and plain. + </p> + <p> + “I never will leave you as long as I live.” + </p> + <p> + Then I ran back to Penelope, and told her I should walk home with Doctor + Urquhart; he had something to say to me. She tried anger and authority. + Both failed. If we had been summer lovers it might have been different, + but now in his trouble I seemed to feel Max's right to me and my love, as + I had never done before. Penelope might have lectured for everlasting, and + I should only have listened, and then gone back to Max's side. As I did. + </p> + <p> + His arm pressed mine close; he did not say a second time, “Leave me.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Max, I want to hear.” + </p> + <p> + No answer. + </p> + <p> + “You know there is something, and we shall never be quite happy till it is + told. Say it outright; whatever it is, I shall not mind.” + </p> + <p> + No answer. + </p> + <p> + “Is it something very terrible?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Something that might come between and part us?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + I trembled, though not much, having so strong a belief in the + impossibility of parting. Yet there must have been an expression I hardly + intended in the cry “Oh, Max, tell me,” for he again stopped suddenly, and + seemed to forget himself in looking at and thinking of me. + </p> + <p> + “Stay, Theodora,—you have something to tell <i>me</i> first. Are you + better? Have you been growing stronger daily? You are sure?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite sure. Now—tell me.” + </p> + <p> + He tried to speak once or twice, vainly. At last he said:— + </p> + <p> + “I—I wrote you a letter.” + </p> + <p> + “I never got it.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I did not mean you should until my death. But my mind has changed. + You shall have it now. I have carried it about with me, on the chance of + meeting you, these four days. I wanted to give it to you—and—to + look at you. Oh, my child, my child.” + </p> + <p> + After a little while, he gave me the letter, begging me not to open it + till I was alone at night. + </p> + <p> + “And if it should shock you—break your heart?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing will break my heart.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right, it is too pure and good. God will not suffer it to be + broken. Now, good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + For we had reached the gate of Bock-mount. It had never struck me before + that I had to bid him adieu here, that he did not mean to go in with me to + dinner; and when he refused, I felt it very much. His only answer was, for + the second time, “that I did not know what I was saying.” + </p> + <p> + It was now nearly dark, and so misty that I could hardly breathe. Doctor + Urquhart insisted on my going in immediately, tied my veil close under my + chin, and then hastily untied it. + </p> + <p> + “Love, do you love me?” + </p> + <p> + He has told me afterwards, he forgot then for the time being, every + circumstance that was likely to part us; everything in the whole world but + me. And I trust I was not the only one who felt that it is those alone + who? loving as we did, are everything to one another who have most + strength to part. + </p> + <p> + When I came indoors, the first person I met was papa, looking quite bright + and pleased; and his first question was:— + </p> + <p> + “Where is Doctor Urquhart? Penelope said Doctor Urquhart was coming here.” + </p> + <p> + I hardly know what was done during that evening, or whether they blamed + Max or not. + </p> + <p> + All my care was how best to keep his secret, and literally to obey him + concerning it. + </p> + <p> + Of course, I never named his letter, nor made any attempt to read it till + I had bidden good night to them all, and smiled at Penelope's grumbling + over my long candles and my large fire, “as if I meant to sit up all + night.” Yes, I had taken all these precautions in a quiet, solemn kind of + way, for I did not know what was before me, and I must not fall ill if I + could help. I was Max's own personal property. + </p> + <p> + How cross she was that night, poor Penelope! It was the last time she has + ever scolded me. + </p> + <p> + For some things, Penelope has felt this more than anyone could, except + papa, for she is the only one of us who has a clear recollection of Harry. + </p> + <p> + Now, his name is written, and I can tell it—the awful secret I + learned from Max's letter, which no one except me must ever read. + </p> + <p> + My Max killed Harry. Not intentionally—when he was out of himself + and hardly accountable for what he did; in a passion of boyish fury, + roused by great cruelty and wrong; but—he killed him. My brother's + death, which we believed to be accidental, was by Max's hand. + </p> + <p> + I write this down calmly, now; but it was awful at the time. I think I + must have read on mechanically, expecting something sad, and about Harry + likewise; I soon guessed that bad man at Salisbury must have been poor + Harry—but I never guessed anything near the truth till I came to the + words “I <i>murdered</i> him.” + </p> + <p> + To suppose one feels a great blow acutely at the instant is a mistake—it + stuns rather than wounds. Especially when it comes in a letter, read in + quiet and alone, as I read Max's letter that night. And—as I + remember afterwards seeing in some book, and thinking how true it was—it + is strange how soon a great misery grows familiar. Waking up from the + first few minutes of total bewilderment, I seemed to have been aware all + these twenty years that my Max killed Harry. + </p> + <p> + O Harry, my brother, whom I never knew—no more than any stranger in + the street, and the faint memory of whom was mixed with an indefinite + something of wickedness, anguish, and disgrace to us all, if I felt not as + I ought, then or afterwards, forgive me. If, though your sister, I thought + less of you dead than of my living Max—my poor, poor Max, who had + borne this awful burthen for twenty years—Harry, forgive me! + </p> + <p> + Well, I knew it—as an absolute fact and certainty—though as + one often feels with great personal misfortunes, at first I could not + realize it. Gradually I became fully conscious what an overwhelming horror + it was, and what a fearful retributive justice had fallen upon papa and us + all. + </p> + <p> + For there were some things I had not myself known till this spring, when + Penelope, in the fullness of her heart at leaving us, talked to me a good + deal of old childish days, and especially about Harry. + </p> + <p> + He was a spoiled child. His father never said him nay in anything—never, + from the time when he sat at table, in his own ornamental chair, and drank + champagne out of his own particular glass, lisping toasts that were the + great amusement of everybody. He never knew what contradiction was, till, + at nineteen, he fell in love, and wanted to get married, and would have + succeeded, for they eloped, (as I believe papa and Harry's mother had + done), but papa prevented them in time. The girl, some village lass, but + she might have had a heart nevertheless, broke it, and died. Then Harry + went all wrong. + </p> + <p> + Penelope remembers, how, at times, a shabby, dissipated man used to meet + us children out walking, and kiss us and the nurserymaids all round, + saying he was our brother Harry. Also, how he used to lie in wait for papa + coming out of church, follow him into his library, where, after fearful + scenes of quarrelling, Harry would go away jauntily, laughing to us, and + bowing to mamma, who always showed him out and shut the door upon him with + a face as white as a sheet. + </p> + <p> + My sister also remembers papa's being suddenly called away from home for a + day or two, and, on his return, our being all put into mourning, and told + that it was for brother Harry, whom we must never speak of any more. And + once, when she was saying her geography lesson, and wanted to go and ask + papa some questions about Stonehenge and Salisbury, mamma stopped her, + saying she must take care never to mention these places to papa, for that + poor Harry—she called him so now—had died miserably by an + accident, and been buried at Salisbury. + </p> + <p> + She died the same year, and soon afterwards we came to Rockmount, living + handsomely upon grandfather's money, and proud that we had already begun + to call ourselves Johnston. Oh, me, what wicked falsehoods poor Harry told + about his “family.” Him we never again named; not one of our neighbours + here ever knew that we had a brother. + </p> + <p> + The first shock over, hour after hour of that long night I sat, trying by + any means to recall him to mind, my father's son, my own flesh and blood—at + least by the half-blood—to pity him, to feel as I ought concerning + his death, and the one who caused it. But do as I would, my thoughts went + back to Max—as they might have done, even had he not been my own Max—out + of deep compassion for one who, not being a premeditated and hardened + criminal, had suffered for twenty years the penalty of this single crime. + </p> + <p> + It was such, I knew. I did not attempt to palliate it, or justify him. + Though poor Harry was worthless, and Max is—what he is—that + did not alter the question. I believe, even then, I did not disguise from + myself the truth—that my Max had committed, not a fault, but an + actual crime. But I called him my Max still. It was the only word that + saved me, or I might, as he feared, have “broken my heart.” + </p> + <p> + The whole history of that dreadful night, there is no need I should tell + to any human being; even Max himself will never know it. God knows it, and + that is enough. By my own strength, I never should have kept my life or + reason till the morning. + </p> + <p> + But it was necessary, and it was better far that I should have gone + through this anguish alone, guided by no outer influence, and sustained + only by that Strength which always comes in seasons like these. + </p> + <p> + I seem, while stretched on the rack of those long night hours, to have + been led by some supernatural instinct into the utmost depths of human and + divine justice, human and divine love, in search of <i>the right</i>. At + last I saw it, clung to it, and have found it my rock of hope ever since. + </p> + <p> + When the house below began to stir, I put out my candle, and stood + watching the dawn creep over the grey moorlands, just as on the morning + when we had sat up all night with my father—Max and I. How fond my + father was of him—my poor, poor father! + </p> + <p> + The horrible conflict and confusion of mind came back. I felt as if right + and wrong were inextricably mixed together, laying me under a sort of + moral paralysis, out of which the only escape was madness. Then out of the + deeps I cried unto Thee: O Thou whose infinite justice includes also + infinite forgiveness; and Thou heardest me. + </p> + <p> + “<i>When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath + committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his + soul alive?</i>” + </p> + <p> + I remembered these words: and unto Thee I trusted my Max's soul. + </p> + <p> + It was daylight now, and the little birds began waking up, one by one, + until they broke into a perfect chorus of chirping and singing. I thought, + was ever grief like this of mine? Yes—one grief would have been + worse—if, this sunny summer morning, I knew he had ceased to love + me, and I to believe in him—if I had lost him—never either in + this world or the next, to find him more. + </p> + <p> + After a little, I thought if I could only go to sleep, though but for half + an hour—it would be well. So I undressed and laid myself down, with + Max's letter tight hidden in my hands. + </p> + <p> + Sleep came; but it ended in dreadful dreams, out of which I awoke, + screaming, to see Penelope standing by my bedside, with my breakfast. + </p> + <p> + Now, I had already laid my plans—to tell my father all. For he must + be told. No other alternative presented itself to me as possible—nor, + I knew, would it to Max. When two people are thoroughly one, each guesses + instinctively the other's mind; in most things always in all great things, + for one faith and love includes also one sense of right. I was as sure as + I was of my existence that Max meant my father to be told. Not even to + make me happy would he have deceived me—and not even that we might + be married, would he consent that we should deceive my father. + </p> + <p> + Thus, that my father must be told, and that I must tell him, was a matter + settled and clear—but I never considered about how far must be + explained to anyone else, till I saw Penelope stand there with her + familiar household face, half cross, half alarmed. + </p> + <p> + “Why, child, what on earth is the matter? Here are you, staring as if you + were out of your senses—and there is Doctor Urquhart, who has been + haunting the place like a ghost ever since daylight. I declare, I'll send + for him and give him a piece of my mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't, don't,” I gasped, and all the horror returned—vivid as + daylight makes any new anguish. Penelope soothed me—with the + motherliness that had come over since I was ill, and the gentleness that + had grown up in her since she had been happy, and Francis loving. My + miserable heart yearned to her, a woman like myself—a good woman, + too, though I did not appreciate her once, when I was young and foolish, + and had never known care, as she had. How it came out I cannot tell—I + have never regretted it—nor did Max, for I think it saved my heart + from breaking—but I then and there told my sister Penelope our + dreadful story. + </p> + <p> + I see her still, sitting on the bed, listening with blanched face, gazing, + not at me, but at the opposite wall. She made no outcry of grief, or + horror against Max. She took all in a subdued, quiet way, which I had not + expected would have been Penelope's passion of bearing a great grief. She + hardly said anything, till I cried with a bitter cry:— + </p> + <p> + “Now I want Max. Let me rise and go down, for I must see Max.” + </p> + <p> + Then we two women looked at one another pitifully, and my sister, my happy + sister who was to be married in a fortnight, took me in her arms, sobbing, + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dora, my poor, poor child.” + </p> + <p> + All this seems years upon years ago, and I can relate it calmly enough, + till I call to mind that sob of Penelope's. + </p> + <p> + Well, what happened next? I remember, Penelope came in when I was + dressing, and told me, in her ordinary manner, that papa wished her to + drive with him to the Cedars this morning. “Shall I go, Dora?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you will see <i>him</i> in our absence.” + </p> + <p> + “I intend so.” + </p> + <p> + She turned, then came back and kissed me. I suppose she thought this + meeting between Max and me would be an eternal farewell. The carriage had + scarcely driven off, when I received a message that Doctor Urquhart was in + the parlour. + </p> + <p> + Harry—Harry, twenty years dead—my own brother killed by my + husband! Let me acknowledge. Had I known this <i>before</i> he was my + betrothed husband, chosen open-eyed, with all my judgment, my conscience, + and my soul, loved, not merely because he loved me, but because I loved + him, honoured him, and trusted him, so that even marriage could scarcely + make us more entirely one than we were already—had I been aware of + this before, I might not, indeed I think I never should have loved him. + Nature would have instinctively prevented me. But now it was too late. I + loved him, and I could not unlove him: Nature herself forbade the + sacrifice. It would have been like tearing my heart out of my bosom; he + was half myself—and maimed of him, I should never have been my right + self afterwards. Nor would he. Two living lives to be blasted for one that + was taken unwittingly twenty years ago! Could it—ought it so to be? + </p> + <p> + The rest of the world are free to be their own judges in the matter; but + God and my conscience are mine. + </p> + <p> + I went downstairs steadfastly, with my mind all clear. Even to the last + minute, with my hand on the parlor-door, my heart—where all throbs + of happy love seemed to have been long, long forgotten—my still + heart prayed. + </p> + <p> + Max was standing by the fire—he turned round. He, and the whole + sunshiny room swam before my eyes for an instant,—then I called up + my strength and touched him. He was trembling all over. + </p> + <p> + “Max, sit down.” He sat down. + </p> + <p> + I knelt by him. I clasped his hands close, but still he sat as if he had + been a stone. At last he muttered:— + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to see you, just once more, to know how you bore it—to be + sure I had not killed you also—oh, it is horrible, horrible!” + </p> + <p> + I said it was horrible—but that we would be able to bear it. + </p> + <p> + “We?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—we.” + </p> + <p> + “You cannot mean <i>that?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I do. I have thought it all over, and I do.” Holding me at arm's length, + his eyes questioned my inmost soul. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me the truth. It is not pity—not merely pity, Theodora?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, no, no!” + </p> + <p> + Without another word—the first crisis was past—everything + which made our misery a divided misery.—He opened his arms and took + me once more into my own place—where alone I ever really rested, or + wish to rest until I die. + </p> + <p> + Max had been very ill, he told me, for days, and now seemed both in body + and mind as feeble as a child. For me, my childishness or girlishness, + with its ignorance and weakness, was gone for evermore. + </p> + <p> + I have thought since, that in all women's deepest loves, be they ever so + full of reverence, there enters sometimes much of the motherly element, + even as on this day I felt as if I were somehow or other in charge of Max, + and a great deal older than he. I fetched a glass of water, and made him + drink it—bathed his poor temples and wiped them with my handkerchief—persuaded + him to lean back quietly and not speak another word for ever so long. But + more than once, and while his head lay on my shoulder, I thought of his + mother, my mother who might have been—and how, though she had left + him so many years, she must, if she knew of all he had suffered, be glad + to know there was at last one woman found who would, did Heaven permit, + watch over him through life, with the double love of both wife and mother, + and who, in any case, would be faithful to him till death. + </p> + <p> + Faithful till death. Yes,—I here renewed that vow, and had Harry + himself come and stood before me, I should have done the same. Look you, + any one who after my death may read this;—there are two kinds of + love, one, eager only to get its desire, careless of all risks and costs, + in defiance almost of Heaven and earth; the other, which in its most + desperate longing has strength to say, “If it be right and for our good—if + it be according to the will of God.” This only, I think, is the true and + consecrated love, which therefore is able to be faithful till death. + </p> + <p> + Max and I never once spoke about whether or not we should be married—we + left all that in Higher hands. We only felt we should always be true to + one another—and that, being what we were, and loving as we did, God + himself could not will that any human will or human justice should put us + asunder. + </p> + <p> + This being clear, we set ourselves to meet what was before us. I told him + poor Harry's history, so far as I knew it myself; afterwards we began to + consider how best the truth could be broken to my father. + </p> + <p> + And here let me confess something, which Max has long forgiven, but which + I can yet hardly forgive myself. Max said, “And when your father is told, + he shall decide what next is to be.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean?” I cried. + </p> + <p> + “If he requires atonement, he must have it, even at the hands of the law.” + </p> + <p> + Then, for the first time, it struck me that, though Max was safe so long + as he made no confession, for the peculiar circumstances of Harry's death + left no other evidence against him, still, this confession once public + (and it was, for had I not told Penelope?) his reputation, liberty, life + itself, were in the hands of my sister and my father. A horror as of death + fell upon me. I clung to him who was my all in this world, dearer to me + than father, mother, brother, or sister; and I urged that we should both, + then and there, fly—escape together anywhere, to the very ends of + the earth, out of reach of justice and my father. + </p> + <p> + I must have been almost beside myself before I thought of such a thing. I + hardly knew all it implied, until Max gravely put me from him. + </p> + <p> + “It cannot be you who says this. Not Theodora.” + </p> + <p> + And suddenly, as unconnected and even incongruous things will flash across + one in times like these, I called to mind the scene in my favourite play, + when, the alternative being life or honour, the woman says to her lover, “<i>No, + die!</i>” Little I dreamed of ever having to say to my Max almost the same + words. + </p> + <p> + I said them, kneeling by him, and imploring his pardon for having wished + him to do such a thing even for his safety and my happiness. + </p> + <p> + “We could not have been happy, child,” he said, smoothing my hair, with a + sad, fond smile. “You do not know what it is to have a secret weighing + like lead upon your soul. Mine feels lighter now than it has done for + years. Let us decide: what hour to-night shall I come here and tell your + father?” Saying this, Max turned white to the very lips, but still he + comforted me. + </p> + <p> + “Do not be afraid, my child. I am not afraid. Nothing can be worse than + what has been—to me. I was a coward once, but then I was only a boy, + hardly able to distinguish right from wrong. Now I see that it would have + been better to have told the whole truth at once, and taken all the + punishment. It might not have been death, or if it were, I could but have + died.” + </p> + <p> + “Max, Max!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” and he closed my lips so that they could not moan. “The truth is + better than life, better even than a good name. When your father knows the + truth, all else will be clear. I shall abide by his decision, whatever it + be; he has a right to it. Theodora,” his voice faltered, “make him + understand, some day, that if I had married you, he never should have + wanted a son,—your poor father.” + </p> + <p> + These were almost the last words Max said on this, the last hour that we + were together by ourselves. For minutes and minutes he held me in his + arms, silently; and I shut my eyes, and felt, as if in a dream, the + sunshine and the flower-scents, and the loud singing of the two canaries + in Penelope's greenhouse. Then,-with one kiss, he put me down softly from + my place, and left me alone. + </p> + <p> + I have been alone ever since; God only, knows <i>how</i> alone. + </p> + <p> + The rest I cannot tell to-day. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. HIS STORY. + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>his is the last, + probably, of those “letters never sent,” which may reach you one day; when + or how, we know not. All that is, is best. + </p> + <p> + You say you think it advisable that there should be an accurate written + record of all that passed between your family and myself on the final day + of parting, in order that no further conduct of mine may be misconstrued + or misjudged. Be it so. My good name is worth preserving; for it must + never be any disgrace to you that Max Urquhart loved you. + </p> + <p> + Since this record is to be minute and literal, perhaps it will be better I + should give it impersonally, as a statement rather than a letter. + </p> + <p> + On February 9th, 1857, I went to Rockmount, to see Theodora Johnston, for + the first time after she was aware that I had, long ago, taken the life of + her half-brother, Henry Johnston, not intentionally, but in a fit of + drunken rage. I came, simply to look at her dear face once more, and to + ask her in what way her father would best bear the shock of this + confession of mine, before I took the second step of surrendering myself + to justice, or of making atonement in any other way that Mr. Johnston + might choose. To him and his family my life was owed, and I left them to + dispose of it or of me in any manner they thought best. + </p> + <p> + With these intentions, I went to Theodora. I knew her well. I felt sure + she would pity me, that she would not refuse me her forgiveness, before + our eternal separation; that though the blood upon my hands was half her + own, she would not judge me the less justly, or mercifully, or + Christianly. As to a Christian woman, I came to her—as I had come + once before, in a question of conscience; also, as to the woman who had + been my friend, with all the rights and honours of that name, before she + became to me anything more and dearer. And I was thankful that the lesser + tie had been included in the greater, so that both need not be entirely + swept away and disannulled. + </p> + <p> + I found not only my friend, upon whom, above all others, I could depend, + but my own, my love, the woman above all women who was mine; who, loving + me before this blow fell, clung to me still, and believing that God + Himself had joined us together suffered nothing to put us asunder. + </p> + <p> + How she made me comprehend this I shall not relate, as it concerns + ourselves alone. When at last I knelt by her and kissed her blessed hands—my + saint! and yet all woman, and all my own—I felt that my sin was + covered, that the All-merciful had had mercy upon me. That while, all + these years, I had followed miserably my own method of atonement, denying + myself all life's joys, and cloaking myself with every possible ray of + righteousness I could find, He had suddenly led me by another way, sending + this child's love, first to comfort and then, to smite me, that, being + utterly bruised, broken, and humbled, I might be made whole. + </p> + <p> + Now, for the first time, I felt like a man to whom there is a possibility + of being made whole. Her father might hunt me to death, the law might lay + hold on me, the fair reputation under which I had shielded myself might be + torn and scattered to the winds; but for all that I was safe, I was + myself, the true Max Urquhart, a grievous sinner; yet no longer unforgiven + or hopeless. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance</i>.” + </p> + <p> + That line struck home. Oh, that I could strike it home to every miserable + heart as it went to mine. Oh! that I could carry into the utmost corners + of the earth the message, the gospel which Dallas believed in, the only + one which has power enough for the redemption of this sorrowful world—the + gospel of the forgiveness and remission of sins. + </p> + <p> + While she talked to me—this my saint, Theodora—Dallas himself + might have spoken, apostle-like, through her lips. She said, when I + listened in wonder to the clearness of some of her arguments, that she + hardly knew how they had come into her mind, they seemed to come of + themselves; but they were there, and she was <i>sure</i> they were true. + She was sure, she added, reverently, that if the Christ of Nazareth were + to pass by Rockmount door this day, the only word He would say unto me, + after all I had done, would be:—“Thy sins are forgiven thee—rise + up and walk.” + </p> + <p> + And I did so. I went out of the house an altered man. My burthen of years + had been lifted off me for ever and ever. I understood something of what + is meant by being “born again.” I could dimly guess at what they must have + felt-who sat at the Divine feet, clothed and in their right mind, or who, + across the sunny plains of Galilee, leaped, and walked, and ran, praising + God. + </p> + <p> + I crossed the moorland, walking erect, with eyes fixed on the blue sky, my + heart tender and young as a child's. I even stopped, child-like, to pluck + a stray primrose under a tree in a lane, which had peeped out, as if it + wished to investigate how soon spring would come. It seemed to me so + pretty—I might never have seen a primrose since I was a boy. + </p> + <p> + Let me relate the entire truth—she wishes it. Strange as it may + appear, though hour by hour brought nearer the time when I had fixed to be + at Rockmount, to confess unto a father that I had been the slayer of his + only son—still that day was not an unhappy day. I spent it chiefly + out of doors on the moorlands, near a way-side public-house, where I had + lodged some nights, drinking in large draughts of the beauty of this + external world, and feeling even outer life sweet, though nothing to that + renewed life which I now should never lose again. Never—even if I + had to go next day to prison and trial, and stand before the world a + convicted homicide. Nay, I believe I could have mounted the scaffold + amidst those gaping thousands that were once my terror, and die peacefully + in spite of them, feeling no longer either guilty or afraid. + </p> + <p> + So much for myself, which will explain a good deal that followed in the + interview which I have now to relate. + </p> + <p> + Theodora had wished to save me by herself, explaining all to her father; + but I would not allow this, and at length she yielded. However, things + fell out differently from both our intentions: he learned it first from + his daughter Penelope. The moment I entered his study I was certain Mr. + Johnston knew. + </p> + <p> + Let no sinner, however healed, deceive himself that his wound will never + smart again. He is not instantly made a new man of, whole and sound: he + must grow gradually, even through many a returning pang, into health and + cure. If anyone thinks I could stand in the presence of that old man + without an anguish sharp as death, which made me for the moment wish I had + never been born, he is mistaken. + </p> + <p> + But alleviations came. The first was to see the old man sitting there + alive and well, though evidently fully aware of the truth, and having been + so for some time, for his countenance was composed, his tea was placed + beside him on the table, and there was an open Bible before him, in which + he had been reading. His voice, too, had nothing unnatural or alarming in + it, as, without looking at me, he bade the maid-servant “give Doctor + Urquhart a chair and say, if anyone interrupted, that we were particularly + engaged.” So the door was shut upon us, leaving us face to face. + </p> + <p> + But it was not long before he raised his eyes to him. It is enough, once + in a lifetime, to have borne such a look. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Johnston,”—but he shut his ears. + </p> + <p> + “Do not speak,” he said; “what you have come to tell me I know already. My + daughter told me this morning. And I have been trying ever since to find + out what my church says to the shedder of blood; what she would teach a + father to say to the murderer of his child. My Harry, my only son! And you + murdered him!” + </p> + <p> + Let the words which followed be sacred. If in some degree they were + unjust, and overstepped the truth, let me not dare to murmur. I believe + the curses he heaped upon me in his own words and those of the Holy Book, + will not come, for its other and diviner words, which his daughter taught + me, stand as a shield between me and him. I repeated them to myself in my + silence, and so I was able to endure. + </p> + <p> + When he paused and commanded me to speak, I answered only a few words, + namely, that I was here to offer my life for his son's life; that he might + do with me what he would. + </p> + <p> + “Which means, that I should give you up to justice, have you tried, + condemned, executed. You, Doctor Urquhart, whom the world thinks so well + of. I might live to see you hanged.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes glared, his whole frame was convulsed. I entreated him to calm + himself, for his own health's sake, and the sake of his children. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I will. Old as I am, this shall not kill me. I will live to exact + retribution. My boy, my poor murdered Harry—murdered—murdered.” + </p> + <p> + He kept repeating and dwelling on the word, till at length I said:— + </p> + <p> + “If you know the whole truth, you must be aware that I had no intention to + murder him.” + </p> + <p> + “What, you extenuate? You wish to escape? But you shall not. I will have + you arrested now, in this very house.” + </p> + <p> + “Be it so, then.” + </p> + <p> + And I sat down. + </p> + <p> + So, the end had come. Life, and all its hopes, all its work, were over for + me. I saw, as in a second of time, everything that was coming—the + trial, the conviction, the newspaper clatter over my name, my ill deeds + exaggerated, my good deeds pointed at with the finger of scorn, which + perhaps was the keenest agony of all—save one. + </p> + <p> + “Theodora!” + </p> + <p> + Whether I uttered her name, or only thought it, I cannot tell. However, it + brought her. I felt she was in the room, though she stood by her sister's + side, and did not approach me. + </p> + <p> + Again, I repeat, let no man say that sin does not bring its wages, which + <i>must</i> be paid. Whosoever doubts it, I would he could sit as I sat, + watching the faces of father and daughters, and thinking of the dead face + which lay against my knee, that midnight, on Salisbury plain. + </p> + <p> + “Children,” I heard Mr. Johnston saying, “I have sent for you to be my + witnesses in what I am about to do. Not out of personal revenge—which + were unbecoming a clergyman—but because God and man exact + retribution for blood. There is the man who murdered Harry. Though he were + the best friend I ever had, though I esteemed him ever so much, which I + did,—still, discovering this, I must have retribution. + </p> + <p> + “How, father?” Not <i>her</i> voice, but her sister's. . + </p> + <p> + Let me do full justice to Penelope Johnston. Though it was she who told my + secret to her father, she did it out of no malice. As I afterwards learnt, + chance led their conversation into such a channel, that she could only + escape betraying the truth by a direct lie. And with all her harshnesses, + the prominent feature of her character is its truthfulness, or rather its + abhorrence of falsehood. Nay, her fierce scorn of any kind of duplicity is + such, that she confounds the crime with the criminal, and, once deceived, + never can forgive,—as in the matter of Lydia Cartwright, my + acquaintance with which gave me this insight into Miss Johnston's + peculiarity. + </p> + <p> + Thus, though it fell to her lot to betray my confession, I doubt not she + did so with most literal accuracy; acting towards me neither as a friend + nor foe, but simply as a relater of facts. Nor was there any personal + enmity towards me in her question to her father. + </p> + <p> + It startled him a little. + </p> + <p> + “How did you say? By the law, I conclude. There is no other way.” + </p> + <p> + “And if so, what will be the result? I mean what will be done to him?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell—how should I?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I can; for I have thought over and studied the question all day,” + answered Miss Johnston, still in the same cold, clear, impartial voice. + “He will be tried, of course. I find from your 'Taylor on Evidence,' + father, that a man can be tried and convicted, solely on his own + confession. But in this case, there being no corroborating proof, and all + having happened so long ago, it will scarcely prove a capital crime. I + believe no jury would give a stronger verdict than manslaughter. He will + be imprisoned, or transported beyond seas; where, with his good character, + he will soon work his liberty, and start afresh in another country, in + spite of us. This, I think, is the common-sense view of the matter.” + </p> + <p> + Astonished as Mr. Johnston looked, he made no reply. + </p> + <p> + His daughter continued:— + </p> + <p> + “And for this, you and we shall have the credit of having had arrested in + our own house, a man who threw himself on our mercy, who, though he + concealed, never denied his guilt; who never deceived us in any way. The + moment he discovered the whole truth, dreadful as it was, he never shirked + it, nor hid it from us; but told us outright, risking all the + consequences. A man, too, against whom, in his whole life, we can prove + but this one crime.” + </p> + <p> + “What, do you take his part?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said; “I wish he had died before he set foot in this house—for + I remember Harry. But I see also that after all this lapse of years Harry + is not the only person whom we ought to remember.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember nothing but the words of this Book,” cried the old man, + letting his hand drop heavily upon it. “'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by + man shall his blood be shed.' What have you to say for yourself, <i>murderer?</i>” + </p> + <p> + All this time, faithful to her promise to me, she had not interfered—she, + my love, who loved me; but when she heard him call me <i>that</i>, she + shivered all over, and looked towards me. A pitiful, entreating look, but, + thank God, there was no doubt in it—not the shadow of change. It + nerved me to reply, what I will here record, by her desire and for her + sake. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Johnston, I have this to say. It is written,—'Whoso hateth his + brother is a murderer,' and in that sense, I am one,—for I did hate + him at the time; but I never meant to kill him—and the moment + afterwards I would have given my life for his. If now, my death could + restore him to you, alive again, how willingly I would die.” + </p> + <p> + “Die, and face your Maker? an unpardoned man-slayer, a lost soul?” + </p> + <p> + “Whether I live or die,” said I, humbly, “I trust my soul is not lost. I + have been very guilty; but I believe in One who brought to every sinner on + earth the gospel of repentance and remission of sins.” + </p> + <p> + At this, burst out the anathema—not merely of the father, but the + clergyman,—who mingled the Jewish doctrine of retributive vengeance + during this life with the Christian belief of rewards and punishments + after death, and confounded the Mosaic gehenna with the Calvinistic hell. + I will not record all this—it was very terrible; but he only spoke + as he believed, and as many earnest Christians do believe. I think, in all + humility, that the Master Himself preached a different gospel. + </p> + <p> + I saw it, shining out of her eyes—my angel of peace and pardon. O + Thou, from whom all love comes, was it impious if the love of this Thy + creature towards one so wretched, should come to me like an assurance of + Thine? + </p> + <p> + At length her father ceased speaking—took up a pen and began hastily + writing. Miss Johnston went and looked over his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Papa, if that is a warrant you are making-out, better think twice about + it; for, as a magistrate, you cannot retract. Should you send Dr. Urquhart + to trial, you must be prepared for the whole truth to come out. He must + tell it; or, if he calls Dora and me as witnesses—she having already + his written confession in full—<i>we</i> must.” + </p> + <p> + “You must tell—what?” + </p> + <p> + “The provocation Doctor Urquhart received—how Harry enticed him, a + lad of nineteen, to drink—made him mad, and taunted him. Everything + will be made public—how Harry was so degraded that from the hour of + his death we were thankful to forget that he had ever existed—how he + died as he had lived—a boaster, a coward, spunging upon any one from + whom he could get money, using his talents only to his shame, devoid of + one spark of honesty, honour, and generosity. It is shocking to have to + say this of one's own brother; but, father, you know it is the truth—and, + as such, it must be told.” + </p> + <p> + Amazed—I listened to her—this eldest sister, who I knew + disliked me. + </p> + <p> + Her father seemed equally surprised,—until, at length, her arguments + apparently struck him with uneasiness. + </p> + <p> + “Have you any motive in arguing thus?” said he, hurriedly and not without + agitation; “why do you do it, Penelope!” + </p> + <p> + “A little, on my own account, though the great scandal and publicity will + not much affect Francis and me—we shall soon be out of England. But + for the family's sake,—for Harry's sake,—when all his + wickednesses and our miseries have been safely covered up these twenty + years—consider, father!” + </p> + <p> + She stung him deeper than she knew. I had guessed it before, when I was + almost a stranger to him—but now the whole history of that old man's + life was betrayed in one groan, which burst from the very depth of the + father's soul. + </p> + <p> + “Eli—the priest of the Lord—his sons made themselves vile and + he restrained them not. Therefore they died in one day, both of them. It + was the will of the Lord.” + </p> + <p> + The respectful silence which ensued, no one dared to break. + </p> + <p> + He broke it himself at last, pointing to the door. “Go! murderer, or + man-slayer, or whatever you are, you must go free. Moreover, I must have + your promise—no, your oath—that the secret you have kept so + long, you will now keep for ever.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” I said; but he stopped me fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “No hesitations—no explanations—I will have none and give + none. As you said, your life is mine—to do with it as I choose. + Better you should go unpunished, than that I and mine should be disgraced. + Obey me. Promise.” + </p> + <p> + I did. + </p> + <p> + Thus, in another and still stranger way, my resolutions were broken, my + fate was decided for me, and I have to keep this secret unconfessed to the + end. + </p> + <p> + “Now, go. Put half the earth between us if you can—only go.” + </p> + <p> + Again I turned to obey. Blind obedience seemed the only duty left me. I + might even have quitted the house, with a feeling of total + irresponsibility and indifference to all things, had it not been for a low + cry which I heard, as in a dream. + </p> + <p> + So did her father. “Dora—I had forgotten. There was some sort of + fancy between you and Dora. Daughter, bid him farewell, and let him go.” + </p> + <p> + Then she said—my love said, in her own soft, distinct voice: “No, + papa, I never mean to bid him farewell—that is, finally—never + as long as I live.” + </p> + <p> + Her father and sister were both so astounded, that at first they did not + interrupt her, but let her speak on. + </p> + <p> + “I belonged to Max before all this happened. If it had happened a year + hence, when I was his wife, it would not have broken our marriage. It + ought not now. When any two people are to one another what we are, they + are as good as married; and they have no right to part, no more than man + and wife have, unless either grows wicked, or both change. I never mean to + part from Max Urquhart.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke meekly, standing with hands folded and head drooping; but as + still and steadfast as a rock. My darling—my darling! + </p> + <p> + Steadfast! She had need to he. What she bore during the next few minutes + she would not wish me to repeat, I feel sure. + </p> + <p> + She knows it, and so do I. She knows also that every stab with which I + then saw her wounded for my sake, is counted in my heart, as a debt to be + paid one day, if between those who love there can be any debts at all. She + says not. Yet, if ever she is my wife.—People talk of dying for a + woman's sake—but to live—live for her with the whole of one's + being—to work for her, to sustain and cheer her—to fill her + daily existence with tenderness and care—if ever she is my wife, she + will find out what I mean. + </p> + <p> + After saying all he well could say, Mr. Johnston asked her how she dared + think of me—me, laden with her brother's blood and her father's + curse. + </p> + <p> + She turned deadly pale, but never faltered: “The curse causeless shall not + come,” she said, “For the blood upon his hand, whether it were Harry's or + a stranger's, makes no difference; it is washed out. He has repented long + ago. If God has forgiven him, and helped him to be what he is, and lead + the life he has led all these years, why should I not forgive him? And if + I forgive, why not love him?—and if I love him, why break my + promise, and refuse to marry him?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean, then, to marry him?” said her sister. + </p> + <p> + “Some day—if he wishes it—yes!” + </p> + <p> + From this time, I myself hardly remember what passed; I can only see her + standing there, her sweet face white as death, making no moan, and + answering nothing to any accusations that were heaped upon her, except + when she was commanded to give me up, entirely and for ever and ever. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot, father. I have no right to do it. I belong to him; he is my + husband.” + </p> + <p> + At last, Miss Johnston said to me—rather gently than not, for her: + “I think, Doctor Urquhart, you had better go.” + </p> + <p> + My love looked towards me, and afterwards at her poor father; she too + said, “Yes, Max, go.” And then they wanted her to promise she would never + see me, nor write to me; but she refused. + </p> + <p> + “Father, I will not marry him for ever so long, if you choose—but I + cannot forsake him. I must write to him. I am his very own, and he has + only me. Oh, papa, think of yourself and my mother.” And she sobbed at his + knees. + </p> + <p> + He must have thought of Harry's mother, not hers, for this exclamation + only hardened him. + </p> + <p> + Then Theodora rose, and gave me her little hand.—“It can hold firm, + you will find. You have my promise. But whether or no, it would have been + all the same. No love is worth having that could not, with or without a + promise, keep true till death. You may trust me. Now, goodbye. Good-bye, + my Max.” + </p> + <p> + With that one clasp of the hand, that one look into her fond, faithful + eyes, we parted. I have never seen her since. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + This statement, which is as accurate as I can make it, except in the case + of those voluntary omissions which I believe you yourself would have + desired, I here seal up, to be delivered to you with those other letters + in case I should die while you are still Theodora Johnston. + </p> + <p> + I have also made my will, leaving you all my effects, and appointing you + my sole executrix; putting you, in short, in exactly the same position as + if you had been my wife. This is best, in order that by no chance should + the secret ooze out through any guesses of any person not connected with + your family; also because I think it is what you would wish yourself. You + said truly, I have only you. + </p> + <p> + Another word, which I do not name in my ordinary letters, lest I might + grieve you by what may prove to be only a fancy of mine. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, in the hard work of this my life here, I begin to feel that I + am no longer a young man, and that the reaction after the great strain, + mental and bodily, of the last few months, has left me not so strong as I + used to be. Not that I think I am about to die, far from it. I have a good + constitution, which has worn well yet, and may wear on for some time, + though not for ever, and I am nearly fifteen years older than you. + </p> + <p> + It is very possible that before any change can come, I may leave you, + never a wife, and yet a widow. Possible, among the numerous fatalities of + life, that we may never be married—never even see one another again. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, when I see two young people married and happy, taking it all as + a matter of course, scarcely even recognising it as happiness—-just + like Mr. and Mrs. Treherne, who hunted me out lately, and insisted on my + visiting them—I think of you and me, and it seems very bitter, and I + look on the future with less faith than fear. It might not be so if I + could see you now and then—but oftentimes this absence feels like + death. + </p> + <p> + Theodora, if I should die before we are married, without any chance of + writing down my last words, take them here. + </p> + <p> + No, they will not come. I can but crush my lips upon this paper—only + thy name, not thee, and call thee “my love, my love!” Remember, I loved + thee—all my soul was full of the love of thee. It made life happy, + earth beautiful, and Heaven nearer. It was with me day and night, in work + or rest—as much a part of me as the hand I write with, or the breath + I draw. I never thought of myself, but of “us.” I never prayed but I + prayed for two. Love, my love, so many miles away—O my God, why not + grant me a little happiness before I die! + </p> + <p> + Yet, as once I wrote before, and as she says always in all things, <i>Thy + will be done.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. HER STORY. + </h2> + <p> + <i>Friday night.</i> + </p> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y Dear Max, + </p> + <p> + You have had your Dominical letter, as you call it, so regularly, that you + must know all our doings at Rockmount almost as well as ourselves. If I + write foolishly, and tell you all sorts of trivial things, perhaps some of + them twice over, it is just because there is nothing else to tell. But, + trivial or not, I have a feeling that you like to hear it—you care + for everything that concerns me. + </p> + <p> + So, first, in obedience to orders, I am quite well, even though my + hand-writing is “not so pretty as it used to be.” Do not fancy the hand + shakes, or is nervous or uncertain. Not a bit of it. I am never nervous, + nor weak either—now. Sometimes, perhaps, being only a woman after + all, I feel things a little more keenly than I ought to feel; and then, + not being good at concealment, at least not with you, this fact peeps out + in my letters. For the home-life has its cares, and I feel very weary + sometimes—and then, I have not you to rest upon—visibly, that + is—though in my heart I do always. But I am quite well, Max, and + quite content. Do not doubt it. He who has led us through this furnace of + affliction, will lead us safely to the end. + </p> + <p> + You will be glad to hear that papa is every day less and less cold to me—poor + papa! Last Sunday, he even walked home from church with me, talking about + general subjects, like his old self, almost. Penelope has been always good + and kind. + </p> + <p> + You ask if they ever name you? No. + </p> + <p> + Life at Rockmount moves slowly, even in the midst of marriage + preparations. Penelope is getting a large store of wedding presents. Mrs. + Granton brought a beautiful one last night from her son Colin. + </p> + <p> + I was glad you had that long friendly letter from Colin Granton—glad + also that, his mother having let out the secret about you and me, he was + generous enough to tell you himself that other secret, which I never told. + Well, your guess was right; it was so. But I could not help it; I did not + know it.—For me—how could any girl, feeling as I then did + towards you, feel anything towards any other man but the merest + kindliness?—That is all: we will never say another word about it; + except that I wish you always to be specially kind to Colin, and to do him + good whenever you can—he was very good to me. + </p> + <p> + Life at Rockmount, as I said, is dull. I rise sometimes, go through the + day, and go to bed at night, wondering what I have been doing during all + these hours. And I do not always sleep soundly, though so tired. Perhaps + it is partly the idea of Penelope's going away so soon; far away, across + the sea, with no one to love her and take care of her, save Francis. + </p> + <p> + Understand, this is not with any pitying of my sister for what is a + natural and even a happy lot, which no woman need complain of; but simply + because Francis is Francis—accustomed to think only of himself, and + for himself. It may be different when he is married. + </p> + <p> + He was staying with us here a week; during which I noticed him more + closely than in his former fly-away visits. When one lives in the house + with a person—a dull house too, like ours, how wonderfully odds and + ends of character “crop out,” as the geologists say. Do you remember the + weeks when you were almost continually in our house? Francis had what we + used then to call 'the Doctor's room.' He was pleasant and agreeable + enough, when it pleased him to be-so; but, for all that, I used to say to + myself, twenty times a-day, “My dear Max!” + </p> + <p> + This merely implies that by a happy dispensation of Providence, I, + Theodora Johnston, have not the least desire to appropriate my sister's + husband, or, indeed, either of my sisters' husbands. + </p> + <p> + By-the-by—in a letter from Augustus to papa, which reached me + through Penelope, he names his visit to you; I am glad—glad he + should show you such honour and affection, and that they all should see + it. Do not give up the Trehernes; go there sometimes—for my sake. + There is no reason why you should not. Papa knows it; he also knows I + write to you—but he never says a word, one way or other. We must + wait—wait and hope—or rather, trust. As you say, the + difference between young and older people is, the one hopes, the other + trusts. + </p> + <p> + I seem, from your description, to have a clear idea of the gaol, and the + long, barren breezy flat amidst which it lies, with the sea in the + distance. I often sit and think of the view outside, and of the dreary + inside, where you spend so many hours; the corridors, the exercise-yards, + and the cells; also your own two rooms, which you say are almost as silent + and solitary, except when you come in and find my letter waiting you. I + wish it was me!—pardon grammar—but I wish it was me—this + living me. Would you be glad to see me? Ah, I know! + </p> + <p> + Look! I am not going to write about ourselves—it is not good for us. + We know it all; we know our hearts are nigh breaking sometimes—mine + is. But it shall not. We will live and wait. + </p> + <p> + What was I telling you about?—oh, Francis. Well, Francis spent a + whole week at Rockmount, by papa's special desire, that they might discuss + business arrangements, and that he might see a little more of his intended + son-in-law than he has done of late years. Business was soon dispatched—papa + gives none of us any money during his life-time; what will come to us + afterwards we have never thought of inquiring. Francis did, though—which + somewhat hurt Penelope—but he accounted for it by his being so + “poor.” A relative phrase; why, I should think 500L. a-year, certain, a + mine of riches—and all to be spent upon himself. But as he says, a + single man has so many inevitable expenses, especially when he lives in + society, and is the nephew of Sir William Treherne, of Treherne Court. All + “circumstances'!” Poor Francis; whatever goes wrong he is sure to put + between himself and blame the shield of “circumstances.” Now, if I were a + man, I would fight the world bare-fronted, any how. One would but be + killed at last. + </p> + <p> + Is it wrong of me to write to you so freely about Francis? I hope not. All + mine are yours, and yours mine; you know their faults and virtues as well + as I do, and will judge them equally, as we ought to judge those, who, + whatever they are, are permanently our own. I have tried hard, this time, + to make a real brother of Francis Charteris; and he is, for many things, + exceedingly likeable—nay loveable. I see, sometimes, clearly enough, + the strange charm which has made Penelope so fond of him all these years. + Whether, besides loving him, she can trust him—can look on his face + and feel that he would not deceive her for the world—can believe + every line he writes, and every word he utters, and know that whatever he + does, he will do simply from his sense of right, no meaner motive + interfering—oh, Max, I would give much to be certain Penelope had + this sort of love for her future husband! + </p> + <p> + Well, they have chosen their lot, and must make the best of one another. + Everybody must, you know. + </p> + <p> + Heigho! what a homily I am giving you, instead of this week's history, as + usual—from Saturday to Saturday. + </p> + <p> + The first few days there really was nothing to tell. Francis and Penelope + took walks together, paid visits, or sat in the parlour talking—not + banishing me, however, as they used to do when they were young. On + Wednesday, Francis went up to London for the day, and brought back that + important article, the wedding-ring. He tried it on at supper-time, with a + diamond keeper, which he said would be just the thing for “the governor's + lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Say wife at once,” grumbled I, and complained of the modern fashion of + slurring over that word, the dearest and sacredest in the language. + </p> + <p> + “Wife, then,” whispered Francis, holding the ring on my sister's finger, + and kissing it. + </p> + <p> + Tears started to Penelope's eyes; in her agitation she looked almost like + a girl again, I thought; so infinitely happy. But Francis, never happy, + muttered bitterly some regret for the past, some wish that they had been + married years ago. Why were they not? It was partly his fault, I am sure. + </p> + <p> + The day after this he left, not to return till he comes to take her away + finally. In the meanwhile, he will have enough to do, paying his adieux to + his grand friends, and his bills to his tradespeople, prior to closing his + bachelor establishment for ever and aye—how glad he must be. + </p> + <p> + He seemed glad, as if with a sense of relief that all was settled, and no + room left for hesitation. It costs Francis such a world of trouble to make + up his own mind—which trouble Penelope will save him for the future. + He took leave of her with great tenderness, calling her “his good, + faithful girl,” and vowing—which one would think was quite + unnecessary under the circumstances—to be faithful to her all the + days of his life. + </p> + <p> + That night, when she came into my room, Penelope sat a long time on my bed + talking; chiefly of old days, when she and Francis were boy and girl + together—how handsome he was, and how clever—till she seemed + almost to forget the long interval between. Well, they are both of an age—time + runs equally with each; she is at least no more altered than he. + </p> + <p> + Here, I ought to tell you something, referring to that which, as we + agreed, we are best not speaking of, even between ourselves. It is all + over and done—cover it over, and let it heal. + </p> + <p> + My dear Max, Penelope confessed a thing, for which I am very sorry, but it + cannot be helped now. + </p> + <p> + I told you they never name you here. Not usually, but she did that night. + Just as she was leaving me, she exclaimed, suddenly:— + </p> + <p> + “Dora, I have broken my promise—Francis knows about Doctor + Urquhart.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” I cried. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be terrified—not the whole. Merely that he wanted to marry + you, but that papa found out he had done something wrong in his youth, and + so forbade you to think of him.” + </p> + <p> + I asked her, was she sure no more had escaped her? Not that I feared much; + Penelope is literally accurate, and scrupulously straight forward in all + her words and ways. But still, Francis being a little less so than she, + might have questioned her. + </p> + <p> + “So he did, and I refused point-blank to tell him, saying it would be a + breach of trust. He was very angry; jealous, I think,” and she smiled, + “till I informed him that it was not my own secret—all my own + secrets I had invariably told him, as he me. At which, he said, 'Yes, of + course,' and the matter ended. Are you annoyed? Do you doubt Francis's + honour?” + </p> + <p> + No. For all that, I have felt anxious, and I cannot choose but tell Max; + partly because he has a right to all my anxieties, and, also, that he may + guard against any possibility of harm. None is likely to come though; we + will not be afraid. + </p> + <p> + Augustus, in his letter, says how highly he hears you spoken of in + Liverpool already; how your duties at the gaol are the least of your work, + and that whatever you do, or wherever you go, you leave a good influence + behind you. These were his very words. I was proud, though I knew it all + before. + </p> + <p> + He says you are looking thin, as if you were overworked. Max, my Max, take + care. Give all due energy to the work you have to do, but remember me + likewise; remember what is mine. I think, perhaps, you take too long walks + between the town and the gaol, and that maybe, the prisoners themselves + get far better and more regular meals than the doctor does. See to this, + if you please, Doctor Urquhart. + </p> + <p> + Tell me more about those poor prisoners, in whom you take so strong an + interest—your spiritual as well as medical hospital. And give me a + clearer notion of your doings in the town, your practice and schemes, your + gratis patients, dispensaries, and so on. Also, Augustus said you were + employed in drawing up reports and statistics about reformatories, and on + the general question now so much discussed,—What is to be done with + our criminal classes? How busy you must be! Cannot I help you? Send me + your MSS. to copy. Give me some work to do. + </p> + <p> + Max, do you remember our talk by the pond-side, when the sun was setting, + and the hills looked so still, and soft, and blue? I was there the other + day and thought it all over. Yes, I could have been happy, even in the + solitary life we both then looked forward to, but it is better to belong + to you as I do now. + </p> + <p> + God bless you and keep you safe! + </p> + <p> + Yours, + </p> + <p> + Theodora. + </p> + <p> + P.S. I leave a blank page to fill up after + </p> + <p> + Penelope and I come home. We are going into town together early to-morrow, + to enquire about the character of the lady's maid that is to be taken + abroad, but we shall be back long before post-time. However, I have + written all this overnight to make sure. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sunday.</i> + </p> + <p> + P.S. You will have missed your Sunday letter to-day, which vexes me sore. + But it is the first time you have ever looked for a letter and “wanted” + it, and I trust it will be the last. Ah! now I understand a little of what + Penelope must have felt, looking day after day for Francis's letters, + which never came; how every morning before post-time she would go about + the house as blithe as a lark, and afterwards turn cross and disagreeable, + and her face would settle into the sharp, hard-set expression, which made + her look so old even then. Poor Penelope! if she could have trusted him + the while, it might have been otherwise—men's ways and lives are so + different from women's—but it is this love without perfect trust + which has been the sting of Penelope's existence. + </p> + <p> + I try to remember this when she makes me feel angry with her, as she did + on Saturday. It was through her fault you missed your Sunday letter. + </p> + <p> + You know I always post them myself, in the town; our village post-office + would soon set all the neighbours chattering about you and me. And + besides, it is pleasant to walk through the quiet lanes we both know well + with Max's letter in my hand, and think that it will be in his hand + to-morrow. For this I generally choose the 'time when papa rests before + dinner, with one or other of us reading to him, and Penelope has hitherto, + without saying anything, always taken my place and set me free on a + Saturday. A kindness I felt more than I expressed, many a time. But to-day + she was unkind; shut herself up in her room the instant we returned from + town; then papa called me and detained me till after post-time. + </p> + <p> + So you lost your letter; a small thing, you will say, and this was a + foolish girl to vex herself so much about it. Especially as she can make + it longer and more interesting by details of our adventures in town + yesterday. + </p> + <p> + It was not altogether a pleasant day, for something happened about the + servant which I am sure annoyed Penelope; nay, she being over-tired and + over-exerted already, this new vexation, whatever it was, made her quite + ill for the time, though she would not allow it, and when I ventured to + question, bade me sharply, “let her alone.” You know Penelope's ways, and + may have seen them reflected in me sometimes. I am afraid, Max, that, + however good we may be (of course!) we are not exactly what would be + termed “an amiable family.” + </p> + <p> + We were amiable when we started, however; my sister and I went up to town + quite merrily. I am merry sometimes, in spite of all things. You see, to + have everyone that belongs to one happy and prosperous, is a great element + in one's personal content. Other people's troubles weigh heavily, because + we never know exactly how they will bear them, and because, at best, we + can only sit by and watch them suffer, so little help being possible after + all. But our own troubles we can always bear. + </p> + <p> + You will understand all I mean by “our own.” I am often very, sad for you, + Max; but never afraid for you, never in doubt about you, not for an + instant. There is no sting even in my saddest' thought concerning you. I + trust you, I feel certain that whatever you do, you will do right; that + all you have to endure will be borne nobly and bravely. Thus, I may grieve + over your griefs, but never over you. My love of you, like my faith in + you, is above all grieving. Forgive this long digression; to-day is + Sunday, the best day in all the week, and my day for thinking most of you. + </p> + <p> + To return. Penelope and I were both merry, as we started by the very + earliest train, in the soft May morning; we had so much business to get + through. <i>You</i> can't understand it, of course, so I omit it, only + confiding to you our last crowning achievement—the dress. It is + white <i>moire antique</i>; Doctor Urquhart has not the slightest idea + what that is, but no matter; and it has lace flounces, half a yard deep, + and it is altogether a most splendid affair. But the governor's lady—I + beg my own pardon—the governor's wife, must be magnificent, you + know. + </p> + <p> + It was the mantua-maker, a great West-end personage employed by the grand + family to whom, by Francis's advice, Lydia Cartwright was sent, some years + ago, (by-the-by, I met Mrs. Cartwright to-day, who asked after you, and + sent her duty, and wished you would know that she had heard from Lydia),—this + mantua-maker it was who recommended the lady's-maid, Sarah Enfield, who + had once been a workwoman of her own. We saw the person, who seemed a + decent young woman, but delicate-looking; said her health was injured with + the long hours of millinery-work, and that she should have died, she + thought, if a friend of hers, a kind young woman, had not taken her in and + helped her. She was lodging with this friend now. + </p> + <p> + On the whole, Sarah Enfield sufficiently pleased us to make my sister + decide on engaging her, if only Francis could see her first. We sent a + message to his lodgings, and were considerably surprised to have the + answer that he was not at home, and had not been for three weeks; indeed, + he hardly ever was at home. After some annoyance, Penelope resolved to + make her decision without him. + </p> + <p> + Hardly ever at home! What a lively life Francis must lead: I wonder he + does not grow weary of it. Once, he half owned he was, but added, “that he + must float with the stream—it was too late now—he could not + stop himself.” Penelope will, though. + </p> + <p> + As we drove through the Park, to the address Sarah Enfield had given us—somewhere + about Kensington—Penelope wishing to see the girl once again and + engage her—my sister observed, in answer to my remark, that Francis + must have many invitations. + </p> + <p> + “Of course he has. It shows how much he is liked and respected. It will be + the same abroad. We shall gather round us the very best society in the + island. Still, he will find it a great change from London.” + </p> + <p> + I wonder, is she at all afraid of it, or suspects that he once was? that + he shrank from being thrown altogether upon his wife's society—like + the Frenchman who declined marrying a lady he had long visited because + “where should he spend his evenings?” O, me! what a heart-breaking thing + to feel that one's husband needed somewhere to spend his evenings. + </p> + <p> + We drove past Holland Park—what a bonnie place it is (as you would + say); how full the trees were of green leaves and birds. I don't know + where we went next—I hardly know anything of London, thank goodness!—but + it was a pretty, quiet neighbourhood, where we had the greatest difficulty + in finding the house we wanted, and at last had recourse to the + post-office. + </p> + <p> + The post-mistress—who was rather grim—“knew the place, that + is, the name of the party as lived there—which was all she cared to + know. She called herself Mrs. Chaytor, or Chater, or something like it,” + which we decided must be Sarah Enfield's charitable friend, and + accordingly drove thither. + </p> + <p> + It was a small house, a mere cottage, set in a pleasant little garden, + through the palings of which I saw, walking about, a young woman with a + child in her arms. She had on a straw hat with a deep lace fall that hid + her face, but her figure was very graceful, and she was extremely well + dressed. Nevertheless, she looked not exactly “the lady.” Also, hearing + the gate bell, she called out, “Arriet,” in no lady's voice. + </p> + <p> + Penelope glanced at her, and then sharply at me. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder—” she began; but stopped—told me to remain in the + carriage while she went in, and she would fetch me if she wanted me. + </p> + <p> + But she did not. Indeed, she hardly stayed two minutes. I saw the young + woman run hastily in-doors, leaving her child—such a pretty boy! + screaming after his “mammy,”—and Penelope came back, her face the + colour of scarlet. + </p> + <p> + “What? Is it a mistake?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “No—yes,” and she gave the order to drive on. + </p> + <p> + Again I enquired if anything were the matter, and was answered, “Nothing—nothing + that I could understand.” After which she sat with her veil down, + cogitating; till, all of a sudden, she sprang up as if some one had given + her a stab at her heart. I was quite terrified, but she again told me it + was nothing, and bade me “let her alone.” Which as you know, is the only + thing one can do with my sister Penelope. + </p> + <p> + But at the railway-station we met some people we knew, and she was forced + to talk;—so that by the time we reached Rockmount she seemed to have + got over her annoyance, whatever it was, concerning Sarah Enfield, and was + herself again. That is, herself in one of those moods when, whether her + ailment be mental or physical, the sole chance of its passing away is, as + she says, “to leave her alone.” + </p> + <p> + I do not say this is not trying—doubly so now, when, just as she is + leaving, I seem to understand my sister better and love her more than ever + I did in my life. But I have learned at last not to break my heart over + the peculiarities of those I care for; but try to bear with them as they + must with mine, of which I have no lack, goodness knows! + </p> + <p> + I saw a letter to Francis in the post-bag this morning, so I hope she has + relieved her mind by giving him the explanation which she refused to me. + It must have been some deception practised on her by this Sarah Enfield, + and Penelope never forgives the smallest deceit. + </p> + <p> + She was either too much tired or too much annoyed to appear again + yesterday, so papa and I spent the afternoon and evening alone. But she + went to church with us, as usual, to-day—looking pale and tired—the + ill mood—“the little black dog on her shoulder,” as we used to call + it, not having quite vanished. + </p> + <p> + Also, I noticed an absent expression in her eyes, and her voice in the + responses was less regular than usual. Perhaps she was thinking this would + almost be her last Sunday of sitting in the old pew, and looking up to + papa's white hair, and her heart being fuller, her lips were more silent + than usual. + </p> + <p> + You will not mind my writing so much about my sister Penelope? You like me + to talk to you of what is about me, and uppermost in my thoughts, which is + herself at present. She has been very good to me, and Max loves everyone + whom I love, and everyone who loves me. + </p> + <p> + I shall have your letter to-morrow morning. Good night! + </p> + <p> + Theodora. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. HIS STORY. + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y dear Theodora:— + </p> + <p> + This is a line extra, written on receipt of yours, which was most welcome. + I feared something had gone wrong with my little methodical girl. + </p> + <p> + Do not keep strictly to your Dominical letter just now—write any day + that you can. Tell me everything that is happening to you—you must, + and ought. Nothing must occur to you or yours that I do not know. You are + mine. + </p> + <p> + Your last letter I do not answer in detail till the next shall come: not + exactly from press of business; I would make time if I had it not; but + from various other reasons, which you shall have by-and-by. + </p> + <p> + Give me, if you remember it, the address of the person with whom Sarah + Enfield is lodging. I suspect she is a woman of whom, by the desire of her + nearest relative, I have been in search of for some time. But, should you + have forgotten, do not trouble your sister about this. I will find out all + I wish to learn some other way. Never apologise for, or hesitate at, + writing to me about your family—all that is yours is mine. Keep your + heart up about your sister Penelope: she is a good woman, and all that + befals her will be for her good. Love her, and be patient with her + continually. All your love for her and the rest takes nothing from what is + mine, but adds thereto. + </p> + <p> + Let me hear soon what is passing at Rockmount. I cannot come to you, and + help you—would I could! My love! my love! + </p> + <p> + Max Urquhart. + </p> + <p> + There is little or nothing to say of myself this week, and what there was + you heard yesterday. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. HER STORY. + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y Dear Max:— + </p> + <p> + I write this in the middle of the night; there has been no chance for me + during the day; nor, indeed, at all—until now. To-night, for the + first time, Penelope has fallen asleep. I have taken the opportunity of + stealing into the next room, to comfort—and you. + </p> + <p> + My dear Max! Oh, if you knew! oh, if I could but come to you for one + minute's rest, one minute's love!—There—I will not cry any + more. It is much to be able to write to you; and blessed, infinitely + blessed to know you are—what you are. + </p> + <p> + Max, I have been weak, wicked of late; afraid of absence, which tries me + sore, because I am not strong, and cannot stand up by myself as I used to + do; afraid of death, which might tear you from me, or me from you, leaving + the other to go mourning upon earth for ever. Now I feel that absence is + nothing—death itself nothing, compared to one loss—that which + has befallen my sister, Penelope. + </p> + <p> + You may have heard of it, even in these few days—ill news spreads + fast. Tell me what you hear; for we wish to save my sister as much as we + can. To our friends generally, I have merely written that, “from + unforeseen differences,” the marriage is broken off. Mr. Charteris may + give what reasons he likes at Treherne Court. We will not try to injure + him with his uncle. + </p> + <p> + I have just crept in to look at Penelope; she is asleep still, and has + never stirred. She looks so old—like a woman of fifty, almost. No + wonder. Think—ten years—all her youth to be crushed out at + once. I wonder, will it kill her? It would me. + </p> + <p> + I wanted to ask you—do you think, medically, there is any present + danger in her state? She lies quiet enough; taking little notice of me or + anybody—with her eyes shut during the day-time, and open, + wide-staring, all night long. What ought I to do with her? There is only + me, you know. If you fear anything, send me a telegram at once. Do not + wait to write. + </p> + <p> + But, that you may the better judge her state, I ought just to give you + full particulars, beginning where my last letter ended. + </p> + <p> + That “little black dog on her shoulder,” which I spoke of so lightly!—God + forgive me! also for leaving her the whole of that Sunday afternoon with + her door locked, and the room as still as death; yet never once knocking + to ask, “Penelope, how are you?” On Sunday night, the curate came to + supper, and papa sent me to summon her; she came downstairs, took her + place at table, and conversed. I did not notice her much, except that she + moved about in a stupid, stunned-like fashion, which caused papa to remark + more than once, “Penelope, I think you are half asleep.” She never + answered. + </p> + <p> + Another night, and the half of another day, she must have spent in the + same manner. And I let her do it without enquiry! Shall I ever forgive + myself? + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon of Monday, I was sitting at work, busy finishing her + embroidered marriage handkerchief, alone in the sunshiny parlour, thinking + of my letter, which you would have received at last; also thinking it was + rather wicked of my happy sister to sulk for two whole days, because of a + small disappointment about a servant—if such it were. I had almost + determined to shake her out of her ridiculous reserve, by asking boldly + what was the matter, and giving her a thorough scolding if I dared; when + the door opened, and in walked Francis Charteris. + </p> + <p> + Heartily glad to see him, in the hope his coming might set Penelope right + again, I jumped up and shook hands, cordially. Nor till afterwards did I + remember how much this seemed to surprise and relieve him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, then, all is right!” said he. “I feared, from Penelope's letter, that + she wa a little annoyed with me. Nothing new that, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Something did annoy her, I suspect,” and I was about to blurt out as much + as I knew or guessed of the foolish mystery about Sarah Enfield, but some + instinct stopped me. “You and Penelope had better settle your own + affairs,” said I, laughing. “I'll go and fetch her.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” He threw himself down on the velvet arm-chair—his + favourite lounge in our house for the last ten years. His handsome profile + turned up against the light, his fingers lazily tapping the arm of the + chair, a trick he had from his boyhood,—this is my last impression + of Francis—as <i>our</i> Francis Charteris. + </p> + <p> + I had to call outside Penelope's door three times, “Francis is here.” + </p> + <p> + “Francis is waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “Francis wants to speak to you,” before she answered or appeared; and + then, without taking the slightest notice of me, she walked slowly + downstairs, holding by the wall as she went. + </p> + <p> + So, I thought, it is Francis who has vexed her after all, and determined + to leave them to fight it out and make it up again—this, which would + be the last of their many lovers' quarrels. Ah! it was. + </p> + <p> + Half an hour afterwards, papa sent for me to the study, and there I saw + Francis Charteris standing, exactly where you once stood—you see, I + am not afraid of remembering 'it myself, or of reminding you. No, my Max! + Our griefs are nothing, nothing! + </p> + <p> + Penelope also was present, standing by my father, who said, looking round + at us with a troubled, bewildered air:— + </p> + <p> + “Dora, what is all this? Your sister comes here and tells me she will not + marry Francis. Francis rushes in after her, and says, I hardly can make + out what. Children, why do you vex me so? Why cannot you leave an old man + in peace?” + </p> + <p> + Penelope answered:—“Father, you shall be left in peace, if you will + only confirm what I have said to that—that gentleman, and send him + out of my sight.” + </p> + <p> + Francis laughed:—“To be called back again presently. You know you + will do it, as soon as you have come to your right senses, Penelope. You + will never disgrace us in the eyes of the world—set everybody + gossipping about our affairs, for such a trifle.” + </p> + <p> + My sister made him no answer. There was less even of anger than contempt—utter, + measureless contempt-!—in the way she just lifted up her eyes and + looked at him—looked him over from head to heel, and turned again to + her father. + </p> + <p> + “Papa, make him understand—I cannot—that I wish all this + ended; I wish never to see his face again.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” said papa, in great perplexity. + </p> + <p> + “He knows why.” + </p> + <p> + Papa and I both turned to Francis, whose careless manner changed a little: + he grew red and uncomfortable. “She may tell if she chooses; I lay no + embargo of silence upon her. I have made all the explanations possible, + and if she will not receive them, I cannot help it. The thing is done, and + cannot be undone. I have begged her pardon, and made all sorts of promises + for the future—no man can do more.” + </p> + <p> + He said this sullenly, and yet as if he wished to make friends with her, + but Penelope seemed scarcely even to hear. + </p> + <p> + “Papa,” she repeated, still in the same stony voice, “I wish you would end + this scene; it is killing me. Tell him, will you, that I have burnt all + his letters, every one. Insist on his returning mine. His presents are all + tied up in a parcel in my room, except this; will you give it back to + him?” + </p> + <p> + She took off her ring, a small common turquoise which Francis had given + her when he was young and poor, and laid it on the table. Francis snatched + it up, handled it a minute, and then threw it violently into the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Bear witness, Mr. Johnston, and you too, Dora, that it is Penelope, not + I, who breaks our engagement. I would have fulfilled it honourably—I + would have married her.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you?” cried Penelope, with flashing eyes, “no—not that last + degradation—no!” + </p> + <p> + “I would have married her,” Francis continued, “and made her a good + husband too. Her reason for refusing me is puerile—perfectly + puerile. No woman of sense, who knows anything of the world, would urge it + for a moment. Nor man either, unless he was your favourite—who I + believe is at the bottom of this, who, for all you know, may be doing + exactly as I have done—Doctor Urquhart.” + </p> + <p> + Papa started and said hastily, “Confine yourself to the subject on hand, + Francis. Of what is this that my daughter accuses you? Tell me, and let me + judge.” + </p> + <p> + Francis hesitated, and then said, “Send away these girls, and you shall + hear.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, it flashed upon me <i>what</i> it was. How the intuition came, + how little things, before unnoticed, seemed to rise and put themselves + together, including Saturday's story—and the shudder that ran + through Penelope from head to foot, when on Sunday morning old Mrs. + Cartwright curtsied to her at the churchdoor—all this I cannot + account for, but I seemed to know as well as if I had been told + everything. I need not explain, for evidently you know it also, and it is + so dreadful, so unspeakably dreadful. + </p> + <p> + Oh, Max, for the first minute or so, I felt as if the whole world were + crumbling from under my feet—as I could trust nobody, believe in + nobody—until I remembered you. My dear Max, my own dear Max! Ah, + wretched Penelope! + </p> + <p> + I took her hand as she stood, but she twisted it out of mine again. I + listened mechanically to Francis, as he again began rapidly and eagerly to + exculpate himself to my father. + </p> + <p> + “She may tell you all, if she likes. I have done no worse than hundreds do + in my position, and under my unfortunate circumstances, and the world + forgives them, and women too. How could I help it? I was too poor to + marry. And before I married I meant to do everyone justice—I meant—” + </p> + <p> + Penelope covered her ears. Her face was so ghastly,-that papa himself + said, “I think Francis, explanations are idle. You had better defer them + and go.” + </p> + <p> + “I will take you at your word,” he replied haughtily. “If you or she think + better of it, or of me, I shall be at any time ready to fulfil my + engagement—honourably, as a gentleman should. Good-bye; will you not + shake hands with me, Penelope?” + </p> + <p> + He walked up to her, trying apparently to carry things off with a high + air, but he was not strong enough, or hardened enough. At sight of my + sister sitting there, for she had sank down at last, with a face like a + corpse, only it had not the peace of the dead, Francis trembled. . + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, if I have done you any harm. It was all the result of + circumstances. Perhaps, if you had been a little less rigid—had + scolded me less and studied me more.—But you could not help your + nature, nor I mine. Good-bye, Penelope.” + </p> + <p> + She sat, impassive; even when with a sort of involuntary tenderness, he + seized and kissed her hand; but the instant he was gone—fairly gone—with + the door shut upon him and his horse clattering down the road—I + heard it plainly—Penelope started up with a cry of “Francis—Francis!”—O + the anguish of it!—I can hear it now. + </p> + <p> + But it was not this Francis she called after—I was sure of that—I + saw it in her eyes. It was the Francis of ten years ago—the Francis + she had loved—now as utterly dead and buried, as if she had seen the + stone laid over him, and his body left to sleep in the grave. + </p> + <p> + Dead and buried—dead and buried. Do you know, I sometimes wish it + were so; that she had been left, peacefully widowed—knowing his soul + was safe with God. I thought, when papa and I—papa who that night + kissed me, for the first time since one night you know—sat by + Penelope's bed, watching her—“If Francis had only died!” + </p> + <p> + After she was quiet, and I had persuaded papa to go to rest, he sent for + me and desired me to read a psalm, as I used to do when he was ill—you + remember? When it was ended, he asked me, had I any idea what Francis had + done that Penelope could not pardon? + </p> + <p> + I told him, difficult and painful as it was to do it, all I suspected—indeed, + felt sure of. For was it not the truth?—the only answer I could + give. For the same reason I write of these terrible things to you without + any false delicacy—they are the truth, and they must be told. + </p> + <p> + Papa lay for some time, thinking deeply. At last he said:— + </p> + <p> + “My dear, you are no longer a child, and I may speak to you plainly. I am + an old man, and your mother is dead. I wish she were with us now, she + might help us: for she was a good woman, Dora. Do you think—take + time to consider the question—that your sister is acting right?” + </p> + <p> + I said, “quite right.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet, I thought you held that doctrine, 'the greater the sinner the + greater the saint;' and believed every crime a man can commit may be + repented, atoned, and pardoned?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father; but Francis has never either repented or atoned.” + </p> + <p> + No; and therefore I feel certain my sister is right. Ay, even putting + aside the other fact, that the discovery of his long years of deception + must have so withered up her love,—scorched it at the root, as with + a stroke of lightning—that even if she pitied him, she must also + despise. Fancy, despising one's <i>husband!</i> Besides, she is not the + only one wronged. Sometimes, even sitting by my sister's bedside, I see + the vision of that pretty young creature—she was so pretty and + innocent when she first came to live at Rockmount,—with her boy in + her arms; and my heart feels like to burst with indignation and shame, and + a kind of shuddering horror at the wickedness of the world—yet with + a strange feeling of unutterable pity lying at the depth of all. + </p> + <p> + Max, tell me what you think—you who are so much the wiser of us two; + but I think that even if she wished it still, my sister <i>ought not</i> + to marry Francis Charteris. + </p> + <p> + Ah me! papa said truly I was no longer a child. I feel hardly even a girl, + but quite an old woman—familiar with all sorts of sad and wicked + things, as if the freshness and innocence had gone out of life, and were + nowhere to be found. Except when I turn to-you, and lean my poor sick + heart against you—as I do now. Max, comfort me! + </p> + <p> + You will, I know, write immediately you receive this. If you could have + come—-but that is impossible. + </p> + <p> + Augustus you will probably see, if you have not done so already—for + he already looks upon you as the friend of the family, though in no other + light as yet; which is best. Papa wrote to Sir William, I believe; he said + he considered some explanation a duty, on his daughter's account; further + than this, he wishes the matter kept quiet. Not to disgrace Francis, I + thought; but papa told me one-half the world would hardly consider it any + disgrace at all. Can this be so? Is it indeed such a wicked, wicked world? + </p> + <p> + —Here my letter was stopped by hearing a sort of cry in Penelope's + room. I ran in, and found her sitting up in her bed, her eyes starting, + and every limb convulsed. Seeing me, she cried out:— + </p> + <p> + “Bring a light;—I was dreaming. But it's not true. Where is + Francis?” + </p> + <p> + I made no reply, and she slowly sank down in her bed again. Recollection + had come. + </p> + <p> + “I should not have gone to sleep. Why did you let me? Or why cannot you + put me to sleep for ever and ever, and ever and ever,” repeating the word + many times. “Dora!” and my sister fixed her piteous eyes on my face, “I + should be so glad to die. Why won't you kill me?” + </p> + <p> + I burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + Max, you will understand the total helplessness one feels in the presence + of an irremediable grief like this: how consolation seems cruel, and + reasoning vain. “Miserable comforters are ye all,” said Job to his three + friends; and a miserable comforter I felt to this my sister, whom it had + pleased the Almighty to smite so sore, until I remembered that He who + smites can heal. + </p> + <p> + I lay down outside the bed, put my arm over her, and remained thus for a + long time, not saying a single word—that is, not with my lips. And + since our weakness is often our best strength, and when we wholly + relinquish a thing, it is given back to us many a time in double measure, + so, possibly, those helpless tears of mine did Penelope more good than the + wisest of words. + </p> + <p> + She lay watching me—saying more than once:— + </p> + <p> + “I did not know you cared so much for me, Dora.” + </p> + <p> + It then came into my mind, that as wrecked people cling to the smallest + spar, if, instead of her conviction that in losing Francis she had lost + her all, I could by any means make Penelope feel that there were others to + cling to, others who loved her dearly, and whom she ought to try and live + for still—it might save her. So, acting on the impulse, I told my + sister how good I thought her, and how wicked I myself had been for not + long since discovering her goodness. How, when at last I learned to + appreciate her, and to understand what a sorely-tried life hers had been, + there came not only respect, but love. Thorough sisterly love; such as + people do not necessarily feel even for their own flesh and blood, but + never, I doubt, except to them. (Save, that in some inexplicable way, + fondly reflevted, I have something of the same sort of love for your + brother Dallas.) + </p> + <p> + Afterwards, she lying still and listening, I tried to make my sister + understand what I had myself felt when she came to my bedside and + comforted me that morning, months ago, when I was so wretched; how no + wretchedness of loss can be altogether unendurable, so long as it does not + strike at the household peace, but leaves the sufferer a little love to + rest upon at home. + </p> + <p> + And at length I persuaded her to promise that, since it made both papa and + me so very miserable to see her thus,—and papa was an old man too. + we must not have him with us many years—she would, for our sakes, + try to rouse herself, and see if life were not tolerable for a little + longer. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered, closing her heavy eyes, and folding her hands in a + pitiful kind of patience, very strange in our quick, irritable Penelope. + “Yes—just a little longer. Still, I think I shall soon die. I + believe it will kill me.” + </p> + <p> + I did not contradict her, but I called to mind your words, that, Penelope, + being a good woman, all would happen to her for good. Also, it is usually + not the good people who are killed by grief: while others take it as God's + vengeance, or as the work of blind chance, they receive it humbly as God's + chastisement, live on, and endure. I do not think my sister will die—whatever + she may think or-desire just now. Besides, we have only to deal with the + present, for how can we look forward a single day? How little we expected + all this only a week ago? + </p> + <p> + It seems strange that Francis could have deceived us for so long; years, + it must have been; but we have lived so retired, and were such a simple + family for many things. How far Penelope thinks we know—papa and I—I + cannot guess: she is totally silent on the subject of Francis. Except in + that one outcry, when she was still only half awake, she has never + mentioned his name. + </p> + <p> + There was one thing more I wanted to tell you, Max; you know I tell you + everything. + </p> + <p> + Just as I was leaving my sister, she, noticing I was not undressed, asked + me if I had been sitting up all night, and reproached me for doing so. + </p> + <p> + I said, “I was not weary; that I had been quietly occupying myself in the + next room.” + </p> + <p> + “Reading?” + </p> + <p> + “No” + </p> + <p> + “What were you doing?” with sharp suspicion. + </p> + <p> + I answered without disguise:— + </p> + <p> + “I was writing to Max.” + </p> + <p> + “Max who?—Oh, I had forgotten his name.” + </p> + <p> + She turned from me, and lay with her face to the wall, then said:— + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe in him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do.” + </p> + <p> + “You had better not. You will live to repent it. Child, mark my words. + There may be good women—one or two, perhaps—but there is not a + single good man in the whole world.” + </p> + <p> + My heart rose to my lips; but deeds speak louder than words. I did not + attempt to defend you. Besides, no wonder she should think thus. + </p> + <p> + Again she said, “Dora, tell Doctor Urquhart he was innocent comparatively; + and that I say so. He only killed Harry's body, but those who deceive us + are the death of one's soul. Nay,” and by her expression I felt sure it + was not herself and her own wrongs my sister was thinking of—“there + are those who destroy both body and soul.” + </p> + <p> + I made no answer; I only covered her up, kissed her and left her; knowing + that in one sense I did not leave her either forsaken or alone. + </p> + <p> + And now, I must leave you too, Max; being very weary in body, though my + mind is comforted and refreshed; ay, ever since I began this letter. So + many of your good words have come back to me while I wrote—words + which you have let fall at odd times, long ago, even when we were mere + acquaintances. You did not think I should remember them? I do, every one. + </p> + <p> + This is a great blow, no doubt. The hand of Providence has been heavy upon + us and our house, lately. But I think we shall be able to bear it. One + always has courage to bear a sorrow which shows its naked face, free from + suspense or concealment; stands visibly in the midst of the home, and has + to be met and lived down patiently, by every member therein. + </p> + <p> + You once said that we often live to see the reason of affliction; how all + the events of life hang so wonderfully together, that afterwards we can + frequently trace the chain of events, and see in humble faith and awe, + that out of each one has been evolved the other, and that everything, bad + and good, must necessarily have happened exactly as it did. Thus, I begin + to see—you will not be hurt, Max?—how well it was, on some + accounts, that we were not married, that I should still be living at home + with my sister; and that, after all she knows, and she only, of what has + happened to me this year, she cannot reject any comfort I may be able to + offer her on the ground that I myself know nothing of sorrow. + </p> + <p> + As for me personally, do not fear; I have <i>you</i>. You once feared that + a great anguish would break my heart: but it did not. Nothing in this + world will ever do that—while I have <i>you</i>. + </p> + <p> + Max, kiss me—in thought, I mean—as friends kiss friends who + are starting on a long and painful journey, of which they see no end, yet + are not afraid. Nor am I. Goodbye, my Max. + </p> + <p> + Yours, only and always, + </p> + <p> + Theodora Johnston. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. HIS STORY. + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y dear Theodora:— + </p> + <p> + You will have received my letters regularly; nor am I much surprised that + they have not been answered. I have heard, from time to time, in other + ways, all particulars of your sister's illness and of you. Mrs. Granton + says you keep up well, but I know that, could I see it now, it would be + the same little pale face which used to come stealing to me from your + father's bedside, last year. + </p> + <p> + If I ask you to write, my love, believe it is from no doubt of you, or + jealousy of any of your home-duties; but because I am wearying for a sight + of your handwriting, and an assurance from yourself that you are not + failing in health, the only thing in which I have any fear of your + failing. + </p> + <p> + To answer a passage in your last, which I have hitherto let be, there was + so much besides to write to you about—the passage concerning friends + parting from friends. At first I interpreted it that in your sadness of + spirit and hopelessness of the future, you wished me to sink back into my + old place, and be only your friend. It was then no time to argue the + point, nor would it have made any difference in my letters, either way; + but now let me say two words concerning it. + </p> + <p> + My child, when a man loves a woman, before he tries to win her, he will + have, if he loves unselfishly and generously, many a doubt concerning both + her and himself. In fact, as I once read somewhere, “When a man truly + loves a woman, he would not marry her upon any account, unless he was + quite certain he was the best person she could possibly marry.” But as + soon as she loves him, and he knows it, and is certain that, however + unworthy he may be, or however many faults she may possess—I never + told you you were an angel, did I, little lady?—they have cast their + lot together, chosen one another, as your church says, “for better, for + worse,”—then the face of things is entirely changed. He has his + rights, close and strong as no other human being can have with regard to + her—she has herself given them to him—and if he has any + manliness in him he never will let them go, but hold her fast for ever and + ever. + </p> + <p> + My dear Theodora, I have not the slightest intention of again subsiding + into your friend. I am your lover and your betrothed husband. I will wait + for you any number of years, till you have fulfilled all your duties, and + no earthly rights have power to separate us longer. But in the meantime I + hold fast to <i>my</i> rights. Everything that lover or future husband can + be to you, I must be. And when I see you, for I am determined to see you + at intervals, do not suppose that it will be a friend's kiss—if + there be such a thing—that—But I have said enough—it is + not easy for me to express myself on this wise. + </p> + <p> + My love, this letter is partly to consult you on a matter which is + somewhat on my mind. With any but you I might hesitate, but I know your + mind almost as I know my own, and can speak to you, as I hope I always + shall—frankly and freely as a husband would to his wife. + </p> + <p> + About your sister Penelope and her great sorrow I have already written + fully. Of her ultimate recovery, mentally as well as bodily, I have little + doubt: she has in her the foundations of all endurance—a true + upright nature and a religious mind. The first blow over, a certain little + girl whom I know will be to her a saving angel; as she has been to others + I could name. Fear not, therefore—“Fear God, and have no other + fear:” you will bring your sister safe to land. + </p> + <p> + But, you are aware, Penelope is not the only person who has been + shipwrecked. + </p> + <p> + I should not intrude this side of the subject at present, did I not feel + it to be in some degree a duty, and one that, from certain information + that has reached me, will not bear deferring. The more so, because my + occupation here ties my own hands so much. You and I do not live for + ourselves, you know—nor indeed wholly for one another. I want you to + help me, Theodora. + </p> + <p> + In my last, I informed you how the story of Lydia Cartwright came to my + knowledge, and how, beside her father's coffin, I was entreated by her old + mother to find her out, and bring her home if possible. I had then no idea + who the “gentleman” was; but afterwards was led to suspect it might be a + friend of Mr. Charteris. To assure myself, I one day put some questions to + him—point-blank, I believe, for I abhor diplomacy, nor had I any + suspicion of him personally. In the answer, he gave me a point-blank and + insulting denial of any knowledge on the subject. + </p> + <p> + When the whole truth came out, I was in doubt what to do consistent with + my promise to the poor girl's mother. Finally, I made inquiries; but heard + that the Kensington cottage had been sold up, and the inmates removed. I + then got the address of Sarah Enfield—that is, I commissioned my old + friend, Mrs. Ansdell, to get it, and sent it to Mrs. Cartwright, without + either advice or explanation, except that it was that of a person who knew + Lydia. Are you aware that Lydia has more than once written to her mother, + sometimes enclosing money, saying she was well and happy, but nothing + more? + </p> + <p> + I this morning heard that the old woman, immediately on receiving my + letter, shut up her cottage, leaving the key with a neighbour, and + disappeared. But she may come back, and not alone; I hope, most earnestly, + it will not be alone. And therefore I write, partly to prepare you for + this chance, that you may contrive to keep your sister from any + unnecessary pain, and also from another reason. + </p> + <p> + You may not know it,—and it is a hard thing to have to enlighten my + innocent love, but your father is quite right; Lydia's story is by no + means rare, nor is it regarded in the world as we view it. There are very + few—especially among the set to which Mr. Charteris belonged—who + either profess or practice the Christian doctrine, that our bodies also + are the temples of the Holy Spirit,—that a man's life should, be as + pure as a woman's, otherwise no woman, however she may pity, can, or ought + to respect him, or to marry him. This, it appears to me, is the Christian + principle of love and marriage—the only one by which the one can be + made sacred, and the other “honorable to all.” I have tried, invariably, + in every way to set this forth; nor do I hesitate to write of it to my + wife that will be—whom it is my blessing to have united with me in + every work which my conscience once compelled as atonement and my heart + now offers in humblest thanksgiving. + </p> + <p> + But enough of myself. + </p> + <p> + While this principle, of total purity being essential for both man and + woman, cannot be too sternly upheld, there is also another side to the + subject, analagous to one of which you and I have often spoken. You will + find it in the seventh chapter of Luke and eighth of John: written, I + conclude, to be not only read, but acted up to by all Christians who + desire to have in them “the mind of Christ.” + </p> + <p> + Now, my child, you see what I mean-how the saving command, “<i>Go and sin + no more</i>” applies to this-sin also. + </p> + <p> + You know much more of what Lydia Cartwright used to be than I do; but it + takes long for any one error to corrupt the entire character; and her + remembrance of her mother, as well as her charity to Sarah Enfield, imply + that there must be much good left in the girl still. She is young. Nor + have I heard of her ever falling lower than this once. But she may fall; + since, from what I know of Mr. Charteris's present circumstances, she must + now, with her child, be left completely destitute. It is not the first + similar case, by many, that I have had to do with; but my love never can + have met with the like before. Is she afraid? does she hesitate to hold + out her pure right hand to a poor creature who never can be an innocent + girl again; who also, from the over severity of Rockmount, may have been + let slip a little too readily, and so gone wrong? + </p> + <p> + If you do hesitate, say so; it will not be unnatural nor surprising. If + you do not, this is what I want: being myself so placed that though I feel + the thing ought to be done, there seems no way of doing it, except through + you. Should the Cartwrights reappear in the village, persuade your father + not altogether to set his face against them, or have them expelled the + neighbourhood. They must leave—it is essential for your sister that + they should; but the old woman is very poor. Do not have them driven away + in such a manner as will place no alternative between sin and starvation. + Besides, there is the child—how a man can ever desert his own child!—but + I will not enter into that part of the subject. This a strange “love” + letter; but I write it without hesitation—my love will understand. + </p> + <p> + You will like to hear something of me; but there is little to tell. The + life of a gaol surgeon is not unlike that of a horse in a mill; and, for + some things, nearly as hopeless; best fitted, perhaps, for the old and the + blind. I have to shut my eyes to so much that I cannot remedy, and take + patiently so much to fight against which would be like knocking down the + Pyramids of Egypt with one's head as a battering-ram, that sometimes my + courage fails. + </p> + <p> + This great prison is, you know, a model of its kind, on the solitary, + sanitary, and moral improvement system; excellent, no doubt, compared with + that which preceded it. The prisoners are numerous,-and as soon as many of + them get out they take the greatest pains to get in again; such are the + comforts of gaol life contrasted with that outside. Yet they seem to me + often like a herd of brute beasts, fed and stalled by rule in the manner + best to preserve their health, and keep them from injuring their + neighbours; their bodies well looked after, but their souls—they + might scarcely have any! They are simply Nos. 1, 2, 3, and so on, with + nothing of human individuality or responsibility about them. Even their + faces grow to the same pattern, dull, fat, clean, and stolid. During the + exercising hour, I sometimes stand and watch them, each pacing his small + bricked circle, and rarely catch one countenance which has a ray of + expression or intelligence. + </p> + <p> + Good as many of its results are, I have my doubts as to this solitary + system; but they are expressed on paper in the M.S. you asked for, my kind + little lady! so I will not repeat them here. + </p> + <p> + Yet it will be a change of thought from your sister's sick-room for you to + think of me in mine—not a sick-room though, thank God! This is a + most healthy region: the sea-wind sweeps round the prison-walls, and + shakes the roses in the governor's garden till one can hardly believe it + is so dreary a place inside. Dreary enough sometimes to make one believe + in that reformer who offered to convert some depraved region into a + perfect Utopia, provided the males above the age of fourteen were all + summarily hanged. + </p> + <p> + Do you smile, my love, at this compliment to your sex at the expense of + mine? Yet I see wretches here, whom I cannot hardly believe share the same + common womanhood as my Theodora. Think over carefully what I asked you + about Lydia Cartwright; it is seldom suddenly, but step by step, that this + degradation comes. And at every step there is hope; at least, such is my + experience. + </p> + <p> + Do not suppose, from this description, that I am disheartened at my work + here; besides rules and regulations, there is still much room for personal + influence, especially in hospital. When a man is sick or dying, + unconsciously his heart is humanized—he thinks of God. From this + simple cause, my calling has a great advantage over all others; and it is + much to have physical agencies on one's side, as I do not get them in the + streets and towns. To-day, looking up from a clean, tidy, airy cell, where + the occupant had at least a chance of learning to read if he chose; and, + seeing through the window the patch of bright blue sky, fresh and pure as + ever sky was, I thought of two lines you once repeated to me out of your + dear head, so full of poetry: + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + “God's in His heaven; + </p> + <p class="indent30"> + All's right with the world.” + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + Yesterday I had a holiday. I took the railway to Treherne Court, wishing + to learn something of Rockmount. You said it was your desire I should + visit your brother-in-law and sister sometimes. + </p> + <p> + They seemed very happy—so much as to be quite independent of + visitors, but they received me warmly, and I gained tidings of you. They + escorted me back as far as the park-gates, where I left them standing, + talking and laughing together, a very picture of youth and fortune, and + handsome looks; a picture suited to the place, with its grand ancestral + trees branched down to the ground; its green slopes, and its herds of deer + racing about—while the turrets of the magnificent house which they + call “home,” shone whitely in the distance. + </p> + <p> + You see I am taking a leaf out of your book, growing poetical and + descriptive; but this brief contrast to my daily life made the impression + particularly strong. + </p> + <p> + You need have no anxiety for your youngest sister; she looked in excellent + health and spirits. The late sad events do not seem to have affected her. + She merely observed, “She was glad it was over, she never liked Francis + much. Penelope must come to Treherne Court for change, and no doubt she + would soon make a far better marriage.” Her husband said, “He and his + father had been both grieved and annoyed—indeed, Sir. William had + quite disowned his nephew—such ungentlemanly conduct was a disgrace + to the family.” And then Treherne spoke about his own happiness—how + his father and Lady Augusta perfectly adored his wife, and how the hope + and pride of the family were-entered in her, with more to the same + purport. Truly this young couple have their cup brimming over with life + and its joys. + </p> + <p> + My love, good-bye; which means only “God be with thee!” nor in any way + implies “farewell.”—Write soon. Your words are, as the Good Book + expresses it, “sweeter than honey and the honey-comb,” to me unworthy. + </p> + <p> + Max Urquhart. + </p> + <p> + I should add, though you would almost take it for granted, that in all you + do concerning Mrs. Cartwright or her daughter, I wish you to do nothing + without your father's knowledge and consent. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. HER STORY. + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nother bright, + dazzlingly-bright summer morning, on which I begin writing to my dear Max. + This seems the longest-lasting, loveliest summer I ever knew, outside the + house. Within, all goes on much in the same way, which you know. + </p> + <p> + My moors are growing all purple, Max; I never remember the heather so rich + and abundant; I wish you could see it! Sometimes I want you so! If you had + given me up, or were to do so now, from hopelessness, pride, or any other + reason, what would become of me! Max, hold me fast. Do not let me go. + </p> + <p> + You never do. I can see how you carry me in your heart continually; and + how you are for ever considering how you can help me and mine. And if it + were not become so natural to feel this, so sweet to depend upon you, and + accept everything from you without even saying “thank you,” I might begin + to express “gratitude;” but the word would make you smile. + </p> + <p> + I amused you once, I remember, by an indignant disclaimer of obligations + between such as ourselves; how everything given and received ought to be + free as air, and how you ought to take me as readily if I were heiress to + ten thousand a-year, as I would you if you were the Duke of + Northumberland. No, Max; those are not these sort of things that give me, + towards you, the feeling of “gratitude,”—it is the goodness, the + thoughtfulness, the tender love and care. I don't mean to insult your sex + by saying no man ever loved like you; but few men love in that special + way, which alone could have satisfied a restless, irritable girl like me, + who finds in you perfect trust and perfect rest. + </p> + <p> + If not allowed to be grateful on my own account, I may be in behalf of my + sister Penelope. + </p> + <p> + After thus long following out your orders, medical and mental, I begin to + notice a slight change in Penelope. She no longer lies in bed late, on the + plea that it shortens the day; nor is she so difficult to persuade in + going out. Further than the garden she will not stir; but there I get her + to creep up and down for a little while daily. Lately, she has began to + notice her flowers, especially a white moss-rose, which she took great + pride in, and which never flowered until this summer. Yesterday, its first + bud opened,—she stopped and examined it. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody has been mindful of this—who was it?” + </p> + <p> + I said, the gardener and myself together. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” She called John—showed him what a good bloom it was, + and consulted how they should manage to get the plant to flower again next + year. She can then look forward to “next year.” + </p> + <p> + You say, that as “while there is life there is hope,” with the body; so, + while one ray of hope is discernible, the soul is alive. To save souls + alive, that is your special calling. + </p> + <p> + It seems as if you yourself had been led through deep waters of despair, + in order that you might personally understand how those feel who are + drowning, and therefore know best how to help them. And lately, you have + in this way done more than you know of. Shall I tell you? You will not be + displeased. + </p> + <p> + Max—hitherto, nobody but me has seen a line of your letters. I could + not bear it. I am as jealous over them as any old miser; it has vexed me + even to see a stray hand fingering them, before they reach mine. Yet, this + week I actually read out loud two pages of one of them to Penelope! This + was how it came about. + </p> + <p> + I was sitting by her sofa, supposing her asleep. I had been very miserable + that morning: tried much in several ways, and I took out your letter to + comfort me. It told me of so many miseries, to which my own are nothing, + and among which you live continually; yet are always so patient and tender + over mine. I said to myself—“how good he is!” and two large tears + came with a great splash upon the paper, before I was aware. Very foolish, + you know, but I could not help it. And, wiping my eyes, I saw Penelope's + wide open, watching me. + </p> + <p> + “Has Doctor Urquhart been writing any thing to wound you?” said she, + slowly and bitterly. + </p> + <p> + I eagerly disclaimed this. + </p> + <p> + “Is, he ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, thank God!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, were you crying?” + </p> + <p> + Why, indeed? But what could I say except the truth, that they were not + tears of pain, but because you were so good, and I was so proud of you. I + forgot what arrows these words must have been into my sister's heart. No + wonder she spoke as she did, spoke out fiercely and yet with a certain + solemnity. + </p> + <p> + “Dora Johnston, you will reap what you sow, and I shall not pity you. Make + to yourself an idol, and God will strike it down. '<i>Thou shalt have none + other gods but me.</i>' Remember Who says that, and tremble.” + </p> + <p> + I should have trembled, Max, had I <i>not</i> remembered. I said to my + sister, as gently as I could, “that I made no idols; that I knew all your + faults, and you mine, and we loved one another in spite of them, but we + did not worship one another—only God. That if it were His will we + should part, I believed we could part. And—” here I could not say + any more for tears. . + </p> + <p> + Penelope looked sorry. + </p> + <p> + “I remember you preaching that doctrine once, child, but—” she + started up violently—“Can't you give me something to amuse me? Read + me a bit of that—that nonsense. Of all amusing things in this world, + there is nothing like a love-letter. But don't believe them, Dora,”—she + grasped my hand hard—“they are every one of them lies.” + </p> + <p> + I said that I could not judge, never having received a “love-letter” in + all my life, and hoped earnestly I never might. + </p> + <p> + “No love-letters? What does he write to you about, then?” + </p> + <p> + I told her in a general way. I would not see her half-satirical, + half-incredulous smile. It did not last very long. Soon, though she turned + away and shut her eyes, I felt sure she was both listening and thinking. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Urquhart cannot have an easy or pleasant life,” she observed, “but + he does not deserve it. No man does.” + </p> + <p> + “Or woman either,” said I, as gently as I could. + </p> + <p> + Penelope bade me hold my tongue; preaching was my father's business, not + mine, that is, if reasoning were of any avail. + </p> + <p> + I asked, did she think it was not? + </p> + <p> + “I think nothing about nothing. I want to smother thought. Child, can't + you talk a little? Or stay, read me some of Dr. Urquhart's letters; they + are not love letters, so you can have no objection.” + </p> + <p> + It went hard, Max, indeed it did! till I considered—perhaps, to hear + of people more miserable than herself, more wicked than Francis, might not + do harm but good to my poor Penelope. + </p> + <p> + So I was brave enough to take out my letter and read from it, (with + reservations now and then, of course), about your daily work and the + people concerned therein; all that interests me so much, and makes me feel + happier and prouder than any mere “love-letter” written to or about + myself. Penelope was interested too, both in the gaol and the hospital + matters. They touched that practical, benevolent, energetic half of her, + which till lately has made her papa's right hand in the parish. I saw her + large black eyes brightening up, till an unfortunate name, upon which I + fell unawares, changed all. + </p> + <p> + Max, I am sure she had heard of Tom Turton. Francis knew him. When I + stopped with some excuse, she bade me go on, so I was obliged to finish + the miserable history. She then asked:— + </p> + <p> + “Is Turton dead?” + </p> + <p> + I said, “No,” and referred to the postscript where you say that both + yourself and his poor old ruined father hope Tom Turton may yet live to + amend his ways. + </p> + <p> + Penelope muttered:— + </p> + <p> + “He never will. Better he died.” + </p> + <p> + I said Doctor Urquhart did not think so. She shook her head impatiently, + exclaiming she was tired, and wished to hear no more, and so fell into one + of her long, sullen silences, which sometimes last for hours. + </p> + <p> + I wonder whether among the many cruel things she must be thinking about, + she ever thinks, as I do often, what has become of Francis? + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, puzzling over how best to deal with her, I have tried to + imagine myself in her place, and consider what would have been my own + feelings towards Francis now. The sharpest and most prominent would be the + ever-abiding sense of his degradation,—he who was so dear, united to + the constant terror of his sinking lower and lower to any depth of crime + or shame. To think of him as a bad man, a sinner against heaven, would be + tenfold worse than any sin or cruelty against me. + </p> + <p> + Therefore, whether or not her love for him has died out, I cannot help + thinking there must be times when Penelope would give anything for tidings + of Francis Charteris. I wish you would find out whether he has left + England, and then perhaps in some way or other I may let Penelope + understand that he is safe away—possibly to begin a new and better + life, in a new world. + </p> + <p> + A new and better life. This phrase—Penelope might call it our + “cant,” yet what we solemnly believe in is surely not cant—brings me + to something I have to tell you this week. For some reasons I am glad it + did not occur until this week, that I might have time for consideration. + </p> + <p> + Max, if you remember, when you made to me that request about Lydia + Cartwright, I merely answered “that I would endeavour to do as you + wished;” as, indeed, I always would, feeling that my duty to you, even in + the matter of “obedience,” has already begun. I mean to obey, you see, but + would rather do it with my heart, as well as my conscience. So, hardly + knowing what to say to you, I just said this, and no more. + </p> + <p> + My life has been so still, so safely shut up from the outside world, that + there are many subjects I have never even thought about, and this was one. + After the first great shock concerning Francis, I put it aside, hoping to + forget it. When you revived it, I was at first startled; then I tried to + ponder it over carefully, so as to come to a right judgment and be enabled + to act in every way as became not only myself, Theodora Johnston, but—let + me not be ashamed to say it—Theodora, Max Urquhart's wife. + </p> + <p> + By-and-by, all became clear to me. My dear Max, I do not hesitate; I am + not afraid. I have been only waiting opportunity; which at length came. + </p> + <p> + Last Sunday I overheard my class—Penelope's that was, you know—whispering + something among themselves, and trying to hide it from me; when I put the + question direct, the answer was:— + </p> + <p> + “Please, Miss, Mrs. Cartwright and Lydia have come home.” + </p> + <p> + I felt myself grow hot as fire—I do now, in telling you. Only it + must be borne—it must be told. + </p> + <p> + Also another thing, which one of the bigger girls let out, with many + titters, and never a blush,—they had brought a child with them. + </p> + <p> + Oh, Max, the horror of shame and repulsion, and then the perfect anguish + of pity that came over me! These girls of our parish, Lydia was one of + them; if they had been taught better; if I had tried to teach them, + instead of all these years studying or dreaming, thinking wholly of myself + and caring not a straw about my fellow-creatures. Oh, Max—would that + my life had been more like yours! + </p> + <p> + It shall be henceforth. Going home through the village, with the sun + shining on the cottages, of whose inmates I know no more than of the New + Zealand savages,—on the group of ragged girls who were growing up at + our very door, no one knows how, and no one cares—I made a vow to + myself. I that have been so blessed—I that am so happy—yes, + Max, happy! I will work with all my strength, while it is day. You will + help me. And you will never love me the less for anything I feel—or + do. + </p> + <p> + I was going that very afternoon, to walk direct to Mrs. Cartwright's, when + I remembered your charge, that nothing should be attempted without my + father's knowledge an consent. + </p> + <p> + I took the opportunity when he and I were sitting alone together—Penelope + gone to bed. He was saying she looked better. He thought she might begin + visiting in the district soon, if she were properly persuaded. At least + she might take a stroll round the village. He should ask her to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + “Don't papa. Oh, pray don't!”—and then I was obliged to tell him the + reason why. I had to put it very plainly before he understood—he + forgets things now sometimes. + </p> + <p> + “Starving, did you say?—Mrs. Cartwright, Lydia, and the child?—What + child?” + </p> + <p> + “Francis's.” + </p> + <p> + Then he comprehended,—and, oh, Max, had I been the girl I was a few + months ago, I should have sunk to the earth with the shame he said I ought + to feel at even alluding to such things. But I would not stop to consider + this, or to defend myself; the matter concerned not me, but Lydia. I asked + papa if he did not remember Lydia? + </p> + <p> + She came to us, Max, when she was only fourteen, though, being well-grown + and hand some, she looked older;—a pleasant, willing, affectionate + creature, only she had “no head,” or it was half-turned by the admiration + her beauty gained, not merely among her own class, but all our visitors. I + remember Francis saying once—oh, how angry Penelope was about it—that + Lydia was so naturally elegant she could be made a lady of in no time, if + a man liked to take her, educate and marry her. Would he had done it! + spite of all broken vows to Penelope. I think my sister herself might have + for given him, if he had only honestly fallen in love with poor Lydia, and + married her. + </p> + <p> + These things I tried to recall to papa's mind, but he angrily bade me be + silent. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot,” I said, “because, if we had taken better care of the girl, + this might never have happened. When I think of her—her pleasant + ways about the house—how she used to go singing over her work of + mornings—poor innocent young thing—oh, papa! papa!” + </p> + <p> + “Dora,” he said, eyeing me closely; “what change has come over you of + late?” + </p> + <p> + I said, I did not know, unless it was that which must come over people who + have been very unhappy—the wish to save other people as much + unhappiness as they can. + </p> + <p> + “Explain yourself. I do not understand.” When he did, he said abruptly,— + </p> + <p> + “Stop. It was well you waited to consult with me. If your own delicacy + does not teach you better, I must. My daughter—the daughter of the + clergyman of the parish—cannot possibly be allowed to interfere with + these profligates.” + </p> + <p> + My heart sunk like lead:— + </p> + <p> + “But you, papa? They are here; you, as the rector, must do something. What + shall you do?” + </p> + <p> + He thought a little. + </p> + <p> + “I shall forbid them the church and the sacrament; omit them from my + charities; and take every lawful means to get them out of the + neighbourhood. This, for my family's sake, and the parish's—that + they may carry their corruption elsewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “But they may not be wholly corrupt. And the child—that innocent, + unfortunate child!” + </p> + <p> + “Silence, Dora. It is written, <i>The seed of evil-doers shall never be + renowned</i>. The sinless must suffer with the guilty; there is no hope + for either.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, papa,” I cried, in an agony, “Christ did not say so. He said, 'Go, + and sin no more.'” + </p> + <p> + Was I wrong? If I was, I suffered for it. What followed was very hard to + bear. + </p> + <p> + Max, if ever I am yours, altogether in your power, I wonder, will you ever + give me those sort of bitter, cruel words? Words which people, living + under the same roof, think nothing of using—mean nothing by them—yet + they cut sharp, like swords. The flesh closes up after them—but oh, + they bleed—they bleed! Dear Max, reprove me as you will, however + much, but let it be in love, not in anger or sarcasm. Sometimes people + drop carelessly, by quiet firesides, and with a good-night kiss following, + as papa gave to me, words which leave a scar for years. + </p> + <p> + Next day, I was just about to write and ask you to find some other plan + for helping the Cartwrights, since we neither of us would choose to + persist in one duty at the expense of another—when papa called me to + take a walk with him. + </p> + <p> + Is it not strange, the way in which good angels seem to take up the thread + of our dropped hopes and endeavours, and wind them up for us, we see not + how, till it is all done? Never was I more surprised than when papa, + stopping to lean on my arm, and catch the warm, pleasant wind that came + over the moors, said suddenly:— + </p> + <p> + “Dora, what could possess you to talk to me as you did last night? And + why, if you had any definite scheme in your head, did you relinquish it so + easily?” + </p> + <p> + “Papa, you forbade it.” + </p> + <p> + “So, even when differing from your father, you consider it right to obey + him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,—except—” + </p> + <p> + “Say it out, child.” + </p> + <p> + “Except in the case of any duty which I felt to be not less sacred than + the one I owe to my father.” + </p> + <p> + He made no reply. + </p> + <p> + Walking on, we passed Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. It was quiet and silent, + the door open, but the window-shutter half closed, and there was no smoke + from the chimney. I saw papa turn round and look. At last he said:— + </p> + <p> + “What did you mean by telling me they were 'starving?'” + </p> + <p> + I answered the direct, entire truth. I was bold, for it was your mind as + well as my own I was speaking out, and I knew it was right. I pleaded + chiefly for the child—it was easiest to think of it, the little + creature I had seen laughing and crowing in the garden at Kensington. It + seemed such a dreadful thing for that helpless baby to die of want, or + live to turn out a reprobate. + </p> + <p> + “Think, papa,” I cried, “if that poor little soul had been our own flesh + and blood—if you were Francis's father, and this had been your + grandchild!” + </p> + <p> + To my sorrow, I had forgotten for the time a part of poor Harry's story—the + beginning of it: you shall know it some day—it is all past now. But + papa remembered it. He faltered as he walked—at last he sat down on + a tree by the roadside, and said, “He must go home.” + </p> + <p> + Yet still, either by accident or design, he took the way by the lane where + is Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. At the gate of it a little ragged urchin was + poking a rosy face through the bars; and, seeing papa, this small fellow + gave a shout of delight, tottered out, and caught hold of his coat, + calling him “Daddy.” He started—I thought he would have fallen, he + trembled so: my poor old father. + </p> + <p> + When I lifted the little thing out of his way, I too started. It is + strange always to see a face you know revived in a child's face—in + this instance it was shocking—pitiful. My first thought was, we + never must let Penelope come past this way. I was carrying the boy off—I + well knew where, when papa called me. + </p> + <p> + “Stop. Not alone—not without your father.” + </p> + <p> + It was but a few steps, and we stood on the door-sill of Mrs. Cartwright's + cottage. The old woman snatched up the child, and I heard her whisper + something about “Run—Lyddy—run away.” + </p> + <p> + But Lydia, if that white, thin creature, huddled up in the corner were + she, never attempted to move. + </p> + <p> + Papa walked up to her. + </p> + <p> + “Young woman, are you Lydia Cartwright, and is this your child?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you been meddling with him? You'd better not! I say, Franky, what + have they been doing to mother's Franky?” + </p> + <p> + She caught at him, and hugged him close, as mothers do. And when the boy, + evidently both attracted and puzzled by papa's height and gentlemanly + clothes, tried to get back to him, and again call him “Daddy,” she said + angrily, “No, no, 'tis not your daddy. They're no friends o' yours. I wish + they were out of the place, Franky, boy.” + </p> + <p> + “You wish us away. No wonder. Are you not ashamed to look us in the face—my + daughter and me?” + </p> + <p> + But papa might have said ever so much more, without her heeding. The child + having settled himself on her lap, playing with the ragged counterpane + that wrapped her instead of a shawl, Lydia seemed to care for nothing. She + lay back with her eyes shut, still and white. We may be sure of one thing—she + has preferred to starve. + </p> + <p> + “Dunnot be too hard upon her, sir,” begged the old woman. “Dunnot please, + Miss Dora. She bean't a lady like you, and he were such a fine coaxing + young gentleman. It's he that's most to blame.” + </p> + <p> + My father said sternly, “Has she left him, or been deserted by him—I + mean Mr. Francis Charteris?” + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” screamed Lydia, “what's that? What have they come for? Do they + know anything about him?” + </p> + <p> + <i>She</i> did not, then. + </p> + <p> + “Be quiet, my lass,” said the mother, soothingly, but it was of no use. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Dora,” cried the girl, creeping to me, and speaking in the same sort + of childish pitiful tone in which she used to come and beg Lisabel and me + to intercede for her when she had annoyed Penelope, “do, Miss Dora, tell + me. I don't want to see him, I only want to hear. I've heard nothing since + he sent me a letter from prison, saying I was to take my things and the + baby's and go. I don't know what's become of him, no more than the dead. + And, miss, he's that boy's father—miss—please—” + </p> + <p> + She tried to go down to her knees, but fell prone on the floor. + </p> + <p> + Max, who would have thought, the day before, that this day I should have + been sitting with Lydia Cartwright's head on my lap, trying to bring her + back to this miserable life of hers; that papa would have stood by and + seen me do it, without a word of blame! + </p> + <p> + “It's the hunger,” cried the mother. “You see, she isn't used to it, now; + he always kept her like a lady.” + </p> + <p> + Papa turned, and walked out of the cottage. I afterwards found out that he + had bought the loaf at the baker's shop down the village, and got the + bottle of wine from his private cupboard in the vestry. He returned with + both—one in each pocket—then, sitting down on a chair, cut the + bread and poured out the wine, and fed these three himself, with his own + hands. My dear father! + </p> + <p> + Nor did he draw back when, as she recovered, the first word that came to + the wretched girl's lips was “Francis.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother, beg them to tell me about him. I'll do him no harm, indeed I + won't, neither him nor them. Is he married? Or,” with a sudden gasp, “is + he dead? I've thought sometimes he must be, or he never would have left + the child and me. He was always fond of us, wasn't he, Franky?” + </p> + <p> + I told her, to the best of my knowledge, Mr. Charteris was living, but + what had become of him we could none of us guess. We never saw him now. + </p> + <p> + Here, looking wistfully at me, Lydia seemed suddenly to remember old + times, to become conscious of what she used to be, and what she was now. + Also, in a vague sort of way, of how guilty she had been towards her + mistress and our family. How long, or how deep the feeling was, I cannot + judge, but she certainly did feel. She hung her head, and tried to draw + herself away from my arm. + </p> + <p> + “I'd rather not trouble you, Miss Dora, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + I said it was no trouble, she had better lie still till she felt stronger. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean that. Not such as me.” + </p> + <p> + I told her she must know she had done very wrong, but if she was sorry for + it, I was sorry for her, and we would help her if we could to an honest + livelihood. + </p> + <p> + “What, and the child too?” + </p> + <p> + I looked towards papa; he answered distinctly, but sternly:—“Principally + for the sake of the child.” + </p> + <p> + Lydia began to sob. She attempted no exculpation—expressed no + penitence—just lay and sobbed, like a child. She is hardly more, + even yet—only nineteen, I believe. So we sat—papa as silent as + we, resting on his stick, with his eyes fixed on the cottage floor, till + Lydia turned to me with a sort of fright. . + </p> + <p> + “What would Miss Johnston say if she knew?” + </p> + <p> + I wondered, indeed, what my sister would say. + </p> + <p> + And here, Max—you will hardly credit it, nobody would, if it were an + incident in a book—something occurred which, even now, seems hardly + possible—as if I must have dreamt it all. + </p> + <p> + Through the open cottage door a lady walked right in, looked at us all, + including the child, who stopped in his munching of bread to stare at her + with wide-open blue eyes—Francis's eyes; and that lady was my sister + Penelope. + </p> + <p> + She walked in and walked out again, before we had our wits about us + sufficiently to speak to her, and when I rose and ran after her, she had + slipped away somehow, so that I could not find her. How she came to take + this notion into her head, after being for weeks shut up indoors;—whether + she discovered that the Cartwrights had returned, and came here in anger, + or else, prompted by some restless instinct, to have another look at + Francis's child—none of us can guess; nor have we ever dared to + enquire. + </p> + <p> + When we got home, she was lying in her usual place on the sofa, as if she + wanted us not to notice that she had been out at all. Still, by papa's + desire, I spoke to her frankly—told her the circumstances of our + visit to the two women—the destitution in which we found them; and + how they should be got away from the village as soon as possible. + </p> + <p> + She made no answer whatever, but lay absorbed, as it were—hardly + moving, except an occasional nervous twitch, all afternoon and evening, + until I called her in to prayers, which were shorter than usual—papa + being very tired. He only read the collect, and repeated the Lord's + Prayer, in which, among the voices that followed his, I distinguished, + with surprise, Penelope's. It had a steadiness and sweetness such as I + never heard before. And when—the servants being gone—she went + up to papa, and kissed him, the change in her manner was something almost + startling. + </p> + <p> + “Father, when shall you want me in the district, again?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “My dear girl!” + </p> + <p> + “Because I am quite ready to go. I have been ill, and it has made me + unmindful of many things; but I am better now. Papa, I will try and be a + good daughter to you. I have nobody but you.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke quietly and softly, bending her head upon his grey hairs. He + kissed and blessed her. She kissed me, too, as she passed, and then went + away to bed, without any more explanation. + </p> + <p> + But from that time—and it is now three days ago—Penelope has + resumed her usual place in the household—taken up all her old + duties, and even her old pleasures; for I saw her in her green-house this + morning. When she called me, in something of the former quick, imperative + voice, to look at an air-plant that was just coming into flower, I could + not see it for tears. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, there is in her a difference. Not her serious, almost + elderly-looking face, nor her manner, which has lost its sharpness, and is + so gentle sometimes that when she gives her orders the servants actually + stare—but the marvellous composure which is evident in her whole + demeanour; the bearing of a person who, having gone through that sharp + agony which either kills or cures, is henceforth settled in mind and + “circumstances,” to feel no more any strong emotion, but go through life + placidly and patiently, without much further change, to the end. The sort + of woman that nuns are-made of—or-Sours de la Charité; or Protestant + lay-sisters, of whom every village has some; and almost every family owns + at least one. She will, to all appearance, be our one—our elder + sister, to be regarded with reverence unspeakable, and be made as happy as + we possibly can. Max, I am learning to think with hope and without pain, + of the future of my sister Penelope. + </p> + <p> + One word more, and this long letter ends. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday, papa and I walking on the moor, met Mrs. Cartwright, and learnt + full particulars of Lydia. From your direction, her mother found her out, + in a sort of fever, brought on by want. Of course, everything had been + taken from the Kensington cottage, for Francis's debts. She was turned out + with only the clothes she wore. But you know all this already, through + Mrs. Ansdell. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Cartwright is sure it was you who sent Mrs. Ansdell to them, and that + the money they received week, by week, in their worst distress, came from + you. She said so to papa, while we stood talking. + </p> + <p> + “For it was just like our doctor, sir—as is kind to poor and rich—I'm + sure he used to look at you, sir, as if he'd do anything in the world for + you—as many's the time I've seed him a-sitting by your bedside when + you was ill. If there ever was a man living as did good to every poor soul + as came in his way—it be Doctor Urquhart.” + </p> + <p> + Papa said nothing. + </p> + <p> + After the old woman had gone, he asked if I had any plans about Lydia + Cartwright? + </p> + <p> + I had one, which we must consult about when she is better,—whether + she might not, with her good education, be made one of the + schoolmistresses that you say, go from cell to cell, instructing the + female prisoners in these model gaols. But I hesitated to start this + project to papa—so told him I must think the matter over. + </p> + <p> + “You are growing quite a thinking woman, Dora; who taught you, who put it + into your mind to act as you do?—you, who were such a thoughtless + girl;—speak out, I want to know?” + </p> + <p> + I told him—naming the name of my dear Max; the first time it has + ever passed my lips in my father's hearing, since that day. It was + received in silence. + </p> + <p> + Some time after, stopping suddenly, papa said to me, “Dora, some day, I + know you will go and marry Doctor Urquhart.” + </p> + <p> + What could I say? Deny it, deny Max—my love, and my husband? or tell + my father what was not true? Either was impossible. + </p> + <p> + So we walked on, avoiding conversation until we came to our own + churchyard, where we went in and sat in the porch, sheltering from the + noon-heat, which papa feels more than he used to do. When he took my arm + to walk home, his anger had vanished, he spoke even with a sort of + melancholy. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know how it is, my dear, but the world is altering fast. People + preach strange doctrines, and act in strange ways, such as were never + thought of when I was young. It may be for good or for evil—I shall + find out by-and-by. I was dreaming of your mother last night; you are + growing very like her, child.” Then suddenly, “Only wait till I am dead, + and you will be free, Theodora.” + </p> + <p> + My heart felt bursting; oh Max, you do not mind me telling you these + things? What should I do if I could not thus open my heart to you? + </p> + <p> + Yet it is not altogether with grief, or without hope, that I have thought + over what then passed between papa and me. He knows you—knows too + that neither you nor I have ever deceived him in anything. He was fond of + you once; I think sometimes he misses you still, in little things wherein + you used to pay him attention, less like a friend than a son. + </p> + <p> + Now Max, do not think I am grieving—do not imagine I have cause to + grieve. They are as kind to me as ever they can be. My home is as happy as + any home could be made, except one, which, whether we shall ever find or + not, God knows. In quiet evenings such as this, when, after a rainy day, + it has just cleared up in time for the sun to go down, and he is going + down peacefully in amber glory, with the trees standing up so purple and + still, and the moorlands lying bright, and the hills distinct even to + their very last faint rim—in such evenings as this, Max, when I want + you and cannot find you, but have to learn to sit still by myself, as now, + I learn to think also of the meeting which has no farewell, of the rest + that comes to all in time, of the eternal home. We shall reach that—some + day. + </p> + <p> + Your faithful, + </p> + <p> + Theodora. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. HIS STORY. + </h2> + <p> + <i>Treherne Court,</i> <i>Sunday night.</i> + </p> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y Dear Theodora,— + </p> + <p> + The answer to my telegram has just arrived, and I find it is your sister + whom we are to expect, not you. I shall meet her myself by the night + train, Treherne being quite incapable; indeed, he will hardly stir from + the corridor that leads to his wife's room. + </p> + <p> + You will have heard already that the heir so ardently looked for has only + lived a few hours. Lady Augusta's letters, which she gave me to address, + and I took care to post myself, would have assured you of your sister's + safety, though it was long doubtful. It will comfort you to know that she + is in excellent care, both her medical attendants being known to me + professionally, and Lady Augusta, being a real mother to her, in + tenderness and anxiety. + </p> + <p> + You will wonder how I came here. It was by accident—taking a + Saturday holiday, which is advisable now and then; and Treherne's mother + detained me, as being the only person who had any control over her son. + Poor fellow! he was almost out of his mind. He never had any trouble + before, and he knows not how to bear it. He trembled in terror—thus + coming face to face with that messenger of God who puts an end to all + merely mortal joys—was paralyzed at the fear of losing his + blessings, which, numerous as they are, are all of this world. My love, + whom I thought to have seen to-night, but shall not see—for how + long?—things are more equally balanced than we suppose. + </p> + <p> + You will be sorry about the little one. + </p> + <p> + Treherne seems indifferent; his whole thought being, naturally, his wife; + but Sir William is grievously disappointed. A son too—and he had + planned bonfires, and bell-ringings, and rejoicings all over the estate. + When he stood looking at the little white lump of clay, which is the only + occupant of the grand nursery, prepared for the heir of Treherne Court, I + heard the old man sigh as if for a great misfortune. + </p> + <p> + You will think it none, since your sister lives. Be quite content about + her—which is easy for me to say, when I know how long and anxious + the days will seem at Rockmount. It might have been better, for some + things, if you, rather than Miss Johnston, had come to take charge of your + sister during her recovery; but, maybe, all is well as it is. To-morrow I + shall leave this great house, with its many happinesses, which have run so + near a chance of being overthrown, and go back to my own solitary life, in + which nothing of personal interest ever visits me but Theodora's letters. + </p> + <p> + There were two things I intended to tell you in my Sunday letter; shall I + say them still? for the more things you have to think about the better, + and one of them was my reason for suggesting your presence here, rather + than your eldest sister's.—(Do not imagine though, your coming was + urged by me wholly for other people's sakes. The sight of you—-just + for a few hours—one hour—People talk of water in the desert—the + thought of a green field to those who have been months at sea—well, + that is what a glimpse of your little face would be to me. But I cannot + get it—and I must not moan.) + </p> + <p> + What was I writing about? oh, to bid you tell Mrs. Cartwright from me that + her daughter is well in health and doing well. After her two months' + probation here, the governor, to whom alone I communicated her history + (names omitted) pronounces her quite fitted for the situation. And she + will be formally appointed thereto. This is a great satisfaction to me—as + she was selected solely on my recommendation, backed by Mrs. Ansdell's + letter. Say also to the old woman, that I trust she receives regularly the + money her daughter sends her through me; which indeed is the only time I + ever see Lydia alone. But I meet her often in the wards, as she goes from + cell to cell, teaching the female prisoners; and it is good to see her + sweet grave looks, her decent dress and mien, and her unexpressible + humility and gentleness towards everybody.—She puts me in mind of + words you know—which in another sense, other hearts than poor + Lydia's might often feel—that those love most to whom most has been + forgiven. + </p> + <p> + Hinting this, though not in reference to her, in a conversation with the + governor, he observed, rather coldly, “He had heard it said Doctor + Urquhart held peculiar opinions upon crime and punishment—that, in + fact, he was a little too charitable.” + </p> + <p> + I sighed—thinking that of all men, Doctor Urquhart was the one who + had the most reason to be charitable: and the governor fixed his eyes upon + me somewhat unpleasantly. Anyone running counter, as I do, to several + popular prejudices, is sure not to be without enemies. I should be sorry, + though, to have displeased so honest a man, and one whom, widely as we + differ in some things, is always safe to deal with, from his possessing + that rare quality—justice. + </p> + <p> + You see, I go on writing to you of my matters—just as I should talk + to you if you sat by my side now, with your hand in mine, and your head, + here. (So you found two grey hairs in those long locks of yours last week. + Never mind, love. To me you will be always young.) + </p> + <p> + I write as I hope to talk to you one day. I never was among those who + believe that a man should keep all his cares secret from his wife. If she + is a true wife, she will soon read them on his face, or the effect of + them; he had better tell them out and have them over. I have learnt many + things, since I found my Theodora: among the rest is, that when a man + marries, or loves with the hope of marrying, let him have been ever so + reserved, his whole nature opens out—he becomes another creature; in + degree towards everybody, but most of all to her he has chosen. How + altered I am—you would smile to see, were my little lady to compare + these long letters, with the brief, businesslike productions which have + heretofore borne the signature “Max Urquhart.” + </p> + <p> + I prize my name a little. It has been honourable for a number of years. My + father was proud of it, and Dallas. Do you like it? Will you like it when—if——No, + let me trust in heaven, and say, <i>when</i> you bear it? + </p> + <p> + Those papers of mine which you saw mentioned in the <i>Times</i>—I + am glad Mr. Johnston read them; or at least you suppose he did. + </p> + <p> + I believe they are doing good, and that my name is becoming pretty well + known in connection with them, especially in this town. A provincial + reputation has its advantages; it is more undoubted—more complete. + In London, a man may shirk and hide; his nearest acquaintance can scarcely + know him thoroughly; but in the provinces it is different. There, if he + has a flaw in him, either as to his antecedents, his character, or + conduct, be sure scandal will find it out; for she has every opportunity. + Also, public opinion is at once stricter and more narrow-minded in a place + like this than in a great metropolis. I am glad to be earning a good name + here, in this honest, hard-working, commercial district, where my fortunes + are apparently cast; and where, having been a “rolling stone” all my life, + I mean to settle and “gather moss,” if I can. Moss to make a little nest + soft and warm for—my love knows who. + </p> + <p> + Writing this, about the impossibility of keeping anything secret in a town + like this, reminds me of something which I was in doubt about telling you + or not: finally, I have decided that I will tell you. Your sister being + absent, will make things easier for you. You will not have need to use any + of those concealments which must be so painful in a home. Nevertheless, I + do think Miss Johnston ought to be kept ignorant of the fact that I + believe, nay, am almost certain, Mr. Francis Charteris is at this present + time living in Liverpool. + </p> + <p> + No wonder that all my inquiries about him in London failed. He has just + been discharged from this very gaol. It is more than likely he was + arrested for liabilities long owing; or contracted after his last + fruitless visit to his uncle, Sir William. I could easily find out, but + hardly consider it delicate to make inquiries, as I did not, you know, + after the debtor—whom a turnkey here reported to have said he knew + me. Debtors are not criminals by law—their ward is justly held + private. I never visit any of them unless they come into hospital. + </p> + <p> + Therefore my meeting with Mr. Charteris was purely accidental. Nor do I + believe he recognised me—I had stepped aside into the warder's room. + The two other discharged debtors passed through the entrance-gate, and + quitted the gaol immediately; but he lingered, desiring a car to be sent + for—and inquiring where one could get handsome and comfortable + lodgings in this horrid Liverpool. He hated a commercial town. + </p> + <p> + You will ask, woman-like, how he looked? + </p> + <p> + Ill and worn, with something of the shabby, “poor gentleman” aspect, with + which we here are only too familiar. I overheard the turnkey joking with + the carman about taking him to “handsome rooms.” Also, there was about him + an ominous air of what we in Scotland call the “down-draught;” a term, the + full meaning of which you probably do not understand—I trust you + never may. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + You will see by its date how many days ago the first part of this letter + was written. I kept it back till the cruel suspense of your sister's + sudden relapse was ended—thinking it a pity your mind should be + burthened with any additional care. You have had, in the meantime, the + daily bulletin from Treherne Court—the daily line from me. + </p> + <p> + How are you, my child?—for you have forgotten to say. Any roses out + on your poor cheeks? Look in the glass and tell me. I must know, or I must + come and see. Remember, your life is a part of mine, now. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Treherne is convalescent—as you know. I saw her on Monday for + the first time. She is changed, certainly; it will be long before she is + anything like the Lisabel Johnston of my recollection, full of health and + physical enjoyment. But do not grieve. Sometimes, to have gone near the + gates of death, and returned, hallows the whole future life. I thought, as + I left her, lying contentedly on her sofa, with her hand in her husband's, + who sits watching as if truly she were given back to him from the grave, + that it may be good for those two to have been so nearly parted. It may + teach them, according to a line you once repeated to me (you see, though I + am not poetical, I remember all your bits of poetry), to + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + “hold every mortal joy + </p> + <p class="indent15"> + With a loose hand.” + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + since nothing finite is safe, unless overshadowed by the belief in, and + the glory of, the Infinite. + </p> + <p> + My dearest—my best of every earthly thing—whom to be parted + from temporarily, as now often makes me feel as if half myself were + wanting—whom to lose out of this world would be a loss irremediable, + and to leave behind in it would be the sharpest sting of death—better, + I have sometimes thought, of late—better be you and I than Treherne + and Lisabel. + </p> + <p> + In all these letters I have scarcely mentioned Penelope—you see I am + learning to name your sisters as if mine. She, however, has treated me + almost like a stranger in the few times we happened to meet—until + last Monday. + </p> + <p> + I had left the happy group in the library—Treherne, tearing himself + from his wife's sofa—honest fellow! to follow me to the door—where + he wrung my hand, and said, with a sob like a school-boy, that he had + never been so happy in his life before, and he hoped he was thankful for + it. Your eldest sister, who sat in the window sewing—her figure put + me somewhat in mind of you, little lady—bade me good-bye—she + was going back to Rockmount in a few days. + </p> + <p> + I quitted them, and walked alone across the park, where the chestnut-trees—you + remember them—are beginning, not only to change, but to fall; + thinking how fast the years go, and how little there is in them of + positive joy. Wrong—this!—and I know it; but, my love, I sin + sorely at times. I nearly forgot a small patient I have at the + lodge-gates, who is slipping so gradually, but surely, poor wee man! into + the world where he will be a child for ever. After sitting with him half + an hour, I came out better. + </p> + <p> + A lady was waiting outside the lodge-gates. When I saw who it was, I meant + to bow and pass on, but Miss Johnston called me. From her face, I dreaded + it was some ill news about you. + </p> + <p> + Your sister is a good woman and a kind. + </p> + <p> + She said to me, when her explanations had set my mind at ease:— + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Urquhart, I believe you are a man to be trusted. Dora trusts you. + Dora once said, you would be just, even to your enemies.” + </p> + <p> + I answered, I hoped it was something more than justice, that we owed even + to our enemies. + </p> + <p> + “That is not the question,” she said, sharply; “I spoke only of justice. I + would not do an injustice to the meanest thing—the vilest wretch + that crawls.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + She went on:— + </p> + <p> + “I have not liked you, Dr. Urquhart: nor do I know if my feelings are + altered now—but I respect you. Therefore, you are the only person of + whom I can ask a favour. It is a secret. Will you keep it so?” + </p> + <p> + “Except from Theodora.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right. Have no secrets from Theodora. For her sake, and your own—for + your whole life's peace—never, even in the lightest thing, deceive + that poor child!” Her voice sharpened, her black eyes glittered a moment, + and then she shrank back into her usual self. I see exactly the sort of + woman, which, as you say, she will grow into—sister Penelope—aunt + Penelope. Every one belonging to her must try, henceforth, to spare her + every possible pang. + </p> + <p> + After a few moments, I begged her to say what I could do for her. + </p> + <p> + “Read this letter, and tell me if you think it is true.” + </p> + <p> + It was addressed to Sir William Treherne; the last humble appeal of a + broken-down man; the signature “Francis Charteris.” + </p> + <p> + I tried my best to disguise the emotion which Miss Johnston herself did + not show, and returned the letter, merely inquiring if Sir William had + answered it? + </p> + <p> + “No. He will not. He disbelieves the facts.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you, also?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot say. The—the writer was not always accurate in his + statements.” + </p> + <p> + Women are, in some things, stronger and harder than men. I doubt if any + man could have spoken as steadily as your sister did at this minute. While + I explained to her, as I thought it right to do, though with the manner of + one talking of a stranger to a stranger—the present position of Mr. + Charteris, she replied not a syllable. Only passing a felled tree—she + suddenly sank down upon it, and sat motionless. + </p> + <p> + “What is he to do?” she said, at last. + </p> + <p> + I replied that the Insolvent Court could free him from his debts, and + grant him protection from further imprisonment; that though thus sunk in + circumstances, a Government situation was hardly to be hoped for, still + there were in Liverpool, clerkships and mercantile opportunities, in which + any person so well educated as he, might begin the world again—health + permitting. + </p> + <p> + “His health was never good—has it failed him?” + </p> + <p> + “I fear so.” + </p> + <p> + Your sister turned away. She sat—we both sat—for some time, so + still that a bright-eyed squirrel came and peeped at us, stole a nut a few + yards off, and scuttled away with it to Mrs. Squirrel and the little ones + up in a tall sycamore hard by. + </p> + <p> + I begged Miss Johnston to let me see the address once more, and I would + pay a visit, friendly or medical, as the case might allow, to Mr. + Charteris, on my way home to-night. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Doctor Urquhart.” + </p> + <p> + I then rose and took leave, time being short. + </p> + <p> + “Stay, one word if you please. In that visit, you will of course say, if + inquired, that you learnt the address from Treherne Court. You will, name + no other names?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + “But afterwards, you will write to me?” + </p> + <p> + “I will.” + </p> + <p> + We shook hands, and I left her sitting there on the dead tree. I went on, + wondering if anything would result from this curious combination of + accidents: also, whether a woman's love, if cut off at the root, even like + this tree, could be actually killed, so that nothing could revive it + again. What think you, Theodora? + </p> + <p> + But this trick of moralizing, caught from you, shall not be indulged. + There is only time for the relation of bare facts. + </p> + <p> + The train brought me to the opposite shore of our river, not half a mile's + walk from Mr. Charteris's lodgings. They seemed “handsome lodgings” as he + said—a tall new house, one of the many which, only half-built, or + half-inhabited, make this Birkenhead such a dreary place. But it is + improving, year by year—I sometimes think it may be quite a busy and + cheerful spot by the time I take a house here, as I intend. You will like + a hill-top, and a view of the sea. + </p> + <p> + I asked for Mr. Charteris, and stumbled up the half-lighted stairs, into + the wholly dark drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “Who the devil's there?” + </p> + <p> + He was in hiding, you must remember, as indeed I ought to have done, and + so taken the precaution first to send up my name—but I was afraid of + non-admittance. + </p> + <p> + When the gas was lit, his pale, unshaven, sallow countenance, his state of + apparent illness and weakness, made me cease to regret having gained + entrance, under any circumstances. Recognizing me, he muttered some + apology. + </p> + <p> + “I was asleep—I usually do sleep after dinner.” Then recovering his + confused faculties, he asked with some <i>hauteur</i>, “To what may I + attribute the pleasure of seeing Doctor Urquhart? Are you, like myself, a + mere bird of passage, or a resident in Liverpool?” + </p> + <p> + “I am surgeon of ————— gaol. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I was not aware. A good appointment I hope? And what gaol did you + say?” + </p> + <p> + I named it again, and left the subject. If he chose to wrap himself in + that thin cloak of deception, it was no business of mine to tear it off. + Besides, one pities a ruined man's most petty pride. + </p> + <p> + But it was an awkward position. You know how haughty Mr. Charteris can be; + you know also that unlucky peculiarity in me, call it Scotch shyness, + cautiousness, or what you please, my little English girl must cure it, if + she can. Whether or not it was my fault, I soon felt that this visit was + turning out a complete failure. We conversed in the civillest manner, + though somewhat disjointedly, on politics, the climate and trade of + Liverpool, &c., but of Mr. Charteris and his real condition, I learned + no more than if I were meeting him at a London dinner-party, or a supper + with poor Tom Turton—who is dead, as you know. Mr. Charteris did + not, it seems, and his startled exclamation at hearing the fact was the + own natural expression during my whole visit. Which, after a few rather + broad hints, I took the opportunity of a letter's being brought in, to + terminate. + </p> + <p> + Not, however, with any intention on my side of its being a final one. The + figure of this wretched-looking invalid, though he would not own to + illness—men seldom will—lying in the solitary, fireless + lodging-house parlor, where there was no indication of food, and a strong + smell of opium—followed me all the way to the jetty, suggesting plan + after plan concerning him. + </p> + <p> + You cannot think how pretty even our dull river looks of a night, with its + two long lines of lighted shores, and other lights scattered between in + all directions, <i>every</i> vessel's rigging bearing one. And to-night, + above all things, was a large bright moon, sailing up over innumerable + white clouds, into the clear dark zenith, converting the town of Liverpool + into a fairy city, and the muddy Mersey into a pleasant river, crossed by + a pathway of silver—such as one always looks at with a kind of hope + that it would lead to “some bright isle of rest.” There was a song to that + effect popular when Dallas and I were boys. + </p> + <p> + As the boat moved off, I settled myself to enjoy the brief seven minutes + of crossing—thinking, if I had but the little face by me looking up + into the moonlight she is so fond of, the little hand to keep warm in + mine! + </p> + <p> + And now, Theodora, I come to something which you must use your own + judgment about telling your sister Penelope. + </p> + <p> + Half-way across, I was attracted by the peculiar manner of a passenger, + who had leaped on the boat just as we were shoved off, and now stood still + as a carved figure, staring down into the foamy track of the + paddle-wheels. He was so absorbed that he did not notice me, but I + recognized him at once, and an ugly suspicion entered my mind. + </p> + <p> + In my time, I have had opportunities of witnessing, stage by stage, that + disease—call it dyspepsia, hypochondriasis, or what you will—it + has all names and all forms—which is peculiar to our present state + of high civilization, where the mind and the body seem cultivated into + perpetual warfare one with the other. This state—some people put + poetical names upon it—but we doctors know that it is at least as + much physical as mental, and that many a poor misanthrope, who loathes + himself and the world, is merely an unfortunate victim of stomach and + nerves, whom rest, natural living, and an easy mind, would soon make a man + again. But that does not remove the pitifulness and danger of the case. + While the man is what he is, he is little better than a monomaniac. + </p> + <p> + If I had not seen him before, the expression of his countenance, as he + stood looking down into the river, would have been enough to convince me + how necessary it was to keep a strict watch over Mr. Charteris. + </p> + <p> + When the rush of passengers to the gangway made our side of the boat + nearly deserted, he sprang up the steps of the paddle-box, and there + stood. + </p> + <p> + I once saw a man commit suicide. It was one of ours, returning from the + Crimea. He had been drinking hard, and was put under restraint, for fear + of delirium tremens; but when he was thought recovered, one day, at broad + noon, in sight of all hands, he suddenly jumped overboard. I caught sight + of his face as he did so—it was exactly the expression of Francis + Charteris. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, in any case, you had better never repeat the whole of this to + your sister. + </p> + <p> + Not till after a considerable struggle did I pull him down to the safe + deck once more. There he stood breathless. + </p> + <p> + “You were not surely going to drown yourself, Mr. Charteris?” + </p> + <p> + “I was. And I will.” + </p> + <p> + “Try,—and I shall call the police to prevent your making such an ass + of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + It was no time to choose words, and in this sort of disease the best + preventive one can use, next to a firm, imperative will, is ridicule. He + answered nothing—but gazed at me in simple astonishment, while I + took his arm and led him out of the boat and across the landing-stage. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon for using such strong language, but a man must be an + ass indeed, who contemplates such a thing;—here, too, of all places. + To be fished up out of this dirty river like a dead rat, for the + entertainment of the crowd; to make a capital case at the magistrate's + court to-morrow, and a first-rate paragraph in the <i>Liverpool Mercury</i>,—'Attempted + Suicide of a Gentleman.' Or, if you really succeeded, which I doubt, to be + 'Found Drowned,'—a mere body, drifted ashore with cocoa-nut husks + and cabbages at Waterloo, or brought in as I once saw at these very + stairs, one of the many poor fools who do this here yearly. They had + picked him up eight miles higher up the river, and so brought him down, + lashed behind a rowing-boat, floating face upwards”— + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + I felt Charteris shudder. + </p> + <p> + You will, too, my love, so I will repeat no more of what I said to him. + But these ghastly pictures were the strongest arguments available with + such a man. What was the use of talking to him of God, and life, and + immortality? he had told me he believed in none of these things. But he + believed in death—the epicurean's view of it—“to lie in cold + obstruction and to rot.” I thought, and still think, that it was best to + use any lawful means to keep him from repeating the attempt. Best to save + the man first, and preach to him afterwards. + </p> + <p> + He and I walked up and down the streets of Liverpool almost in silence, + except when he darted into the first chemist's shop he saw to procure + opium. + </p> + <p> + “Don't hinder me,” he said, imploringly, “it is the only thing that keeps + me alive.” + </p> + <p> + Then I walked him about once more, till his pace flagged, his limbs + tottered, he became thoroughly passive and exhausted. I called a car, and + expressed my determination to see him safe home. + </p> + <p> + “Home! No, no, I must not go there.” And the poor fellow summoned all his + faculties, in order to speak rationally. “You see, a gentleman in my + unpleasant circumstances—in short, could you recommend any place—a + quiet, out-of-the-way place, where—where I could hide?” + </p> + <p> + I had suspected things were thus. And now, if I lost sight of him even for + twenty-four hours, he might be lost permanently. He was in that critical + state, when the next step, if it were not to a prison, might be into a + lunatic asylum. + </p> + <p> + It was not difficult to persuade him that the last place where creditors + would search for a debtor would be inside a gaol, nor to convey him, + half-stupefied as he was, into my own rooms, and leave him fast asleep on + my bed. + </p> + <p> + Yet, even now, I cannot account for the influence I so soon gained, and + kept; except that any person in his seven senses always has power over + another nearly out of them, and to a sick man there is no autocrat like + the doctor. + </p> + <p> + Now for his present condition. The day following, I removed him to a + country lodging, where an old woman I know will look after him. The place + is humble enough, but they are honest people. He may lie safe there till + some portion of health returns; his rent, &c.—my prudent little + lady will be sure to be asking after my “circumstances”—well, love, + his rent for the next month at least, I can easily afford to pay. The + present is provided for—as to his future, heaven only knows. + </p> + <p> + I wrote, according to promise, to your sister Penelope, explaining where + Mr. Charteris was, his state of health, and the position of his affairs; + also, my advice, which he neither assents to nor declines, that as soon as + his health will permit, he should surrender himself in London, go through + the Insolvent Court, and start anew in life. A hard life, at best, since, + whatever situation he may obtain, it will take years to free him from all + his liabilities. + </p> + <p> + Miss Johnston's answer I received this morning. It was merely an envelope + containing a bank note of 20L. Sir William's gift, possibly; I told her he + had better be made aware of his nephew's abject state,—or do you + suppose it is from herself? I thought beyond your quarterly allowance, you + had none of you much ready money? If there is anything I ought to know + before applying this sum to the use of Mr. Charteris, you will, of course, + tell me? + </p> + <p> + I have been to see him this afternoon. It is a poor room he lies in, but + clean and quiet. He will not stir out of it; it was with difficulty I + persuaded him to have the window opened, so that we might enjoy the still + autumn sunshine, the church-bells, and the little robin's song. Turning + back to the sickly drawn face, buried in the sofa-pillows, my heart smote + me with a heavy doubt as to what was to be the end of Francis Charteris. + </p> + <p> + Yet I do not think he will die; but he will be months, years in + recovering, even if he is ever his old self again—bodily, I + mean-whether his inner self is undergoing any change, I have small means + of judging. The best thing for him, both mentally and physically, would be + a fond, good woman's constant care; but that he cannot have. + </p> + <p> + I need scarcely say, I have taken every precaution that he should never + see nor hear anything of Lydia; nor she of him. He has never named her, + nor any one; past and future seem alike swept out of his mind; he only + lives in the miserable present, a helpless, hopeless, exacting invalid. + Not on any account would I have Lydia Cartwright see him now. If I judge + her countenance rightly, she is just the girl to do exactly what you women + are so prone to—forgive everything, sacrifice everything, and go + back to the old love. Ah! Theodora, what am I that I should dare to speak + thus lightly of women's love, women's forgiveness! + </p> + <p> + I am glad Mr. Johnston allows you occasionally to see Mrs. Cartwright and + the child, and that the little fellow is so well cared by his grandmother. + If, with his father's face, he inherits his father's temperament, the + nervously sensitive organization of a modern “gentleman,” as opposed to + the healthy animalism of a working man, life will be an uphill road to + that poor boy. + </p> + <p> + His mother's heart aches after him sorely at times, as I can plainly + perceive. Yesterday, I saw her stand watching the line of female convicts—those + with infants—as one after the other they filed out, each with her + baby in her arms, and passed into the exercising-ground. Afterwards, I + watched her slip into one of the empty cells, fold up a child's cap that + had been left lying about, and look at it wistfully, as if she almost + envied the forlorn occupant of that dreary nook, where, at least, the + mother had her child with her continually. Poor Lydia! she may have been a + girl of weak will, easily led astray, but I am convinced that the only + thing which led her astray must have been, and will always be, her + affections. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, as the grandmother cannot write, it would be a comfort to Lydia, + if your next letter enabled me to give to her a fuller account of the + welfare of little Frank. I wonder, does his father ever think of him? or + of the poor mother. He was “always kind to them,” you tell me she + declared; possibly fond of them, so far as a selfish man can be. But how + can such an one as he understand what it must be to be a <i>father!</i> + </p> + <p> + My love, I must cease writing now. It is midnight, and I have to take as + much sleep as I can; my work is very hard just at present; but happy work, + because, through it, I look forward to a future. + </p> + <p> + Your father's brief message of thanks for my telegram about Mr. Treherne, + was kind. Will you acknowledge it in the way you consider would be most + pleasing; that is, least unpleasing, to him, from me. + </p> + <p> + And now, farewell—farewell, my only darling. + </p> + <p> + Max Urquhart. + </p> + <p> + P.S.—After the fashion of a lady's letter, though not, I trust, with + the most important fact therein. Though I re-open my letter to inform you + of it, lest you might learn it in some other way, I consider it of very + slight moment, and only name it because these sort of small + unpleasantnesses have a habit of growing like snow-balls, every yard they + roll. + </p> + <p> + Our chaplain has just shown me in this morning's paper a paragraph about + myself, not complimentary, and decidedly ill-natured. It hardly took me by + surprise; I have of late occasionally caught stray comments, not very + flattering, on myself and my proceedings, but they troubled me little. I + know that a man in my position, with aims far beyond his present + circumstances, with opinions too obstinate and manners too blunt to get + these aims carried out, as many do, by the aid of other and more + influential people, such a man <i>must</i> have enemies. + </p> + <p> + Be not afraid, love—mine are few; and be sure I have given them no + cause for animosity. True, I have contradicted some, and not many men can + stand contradiction—but I have wronged no man to my knowledge. My + conscience is clear. So they may spread what absurd reports or innuendoes + they will—I shall live it all down. + </p> + <p> + My spirit seems to have had a douche-bath this morning, cold, but + salutary. This tangible annoyance will brace me out of a little + feebleheartedness that has been growing over me of late; so be content, my + Theodora. + </p> + <p> + I send you the newspaper paragraph. Read it, and burn it. + </p> + <p> + Is Penelope come home? I need scarcely observe, that only herself and you + are acquainted, or will be, with any of the circumstances I have related + with respect to Mr. Charteris. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. HER STORY. + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> fourth Monday, + and my letter has not come. Oh, Max, Max!—You are not ill, I know; + for Augustus saw you on Saturday. Why were you in such haste to slip away + from him? He himself even noticed it. + </p> + <p> + For me, had I not then heard of your wellbeing, I should have disquieted + myself sorely. Three weeks—twenty-one days—it is a long time + to go about as if there were a stone lying in the corner of one's heart, + or a thorn piercing it. One may not acknowledge this: one's reason, or + better, one's love, may often quite argue it down; yet, it is there. This + morning, when the little postman went whistling past Rockmount gate, I + turned almost sick with fear. + </p> + <p> + Understand me—not with one sort of fear. Faithlessness or + forgetfulness are—Well, with, you they are—simply impossible! + But you are my Max; anything happening to you happens to me; nothing can + hurt you without hurting me. Do you feel this as I do? if so, surely, + under any circumstances, you would write. + </p> + <p> + Forgive! I meant not to blame you; we never ought to blame what we cannot + understand. Besides, all this suspense may end to-morrow. Max does not + intend to wound me; Max loves me. + </p> + <p> + Just now, sitting quiet, I seemed to hear you saying: “My little lady,” as + distinctly as if you were close at hand, and had called me. Yet it is a + year since I have heard the sound of your voice, or seen your face. + </p> + <p> + Augustus says, of late you have turned quite grey. Never, mind, Max! I + like silver locks. An old man I knew used to say, “At the root of every + grey hair is a eell of wisdom.” + </p> + <p> + How will you be able to bear with the foolishness of this me? Yet, all the + better for you. I know you would soon be ten years younger—looks and + all—if, after your hard work, you had a home to come back to, and—and + <i>me</i>. + </p> + <p> + See how conceited we grow! See the demoralizing result of having been for + a whole year loved and cared for; of knowing ourselves, for the first time + in our lives, first object to somebody! + </p> + <p> + There now, I can laugh again; and so I may begin and write my letter. It + shall not be a sad or complaining letter, if I can help it. + </p> + <p> + Spring is coming on fast. I never remember such a March. Buds of chestnuts + bursting, blackbirds singing, primroses out in the lane, a cloud of snowy + wind-flowers gleaming through the trees of my favourite wood, concerning + which, you remember, we had our celebrated battle about blue-bells and + hyacinths. These are putting out their leaves already; there will be such + quantities this year. How I should like to show you my bank of—ahem! + <i>blue-bells!</i> + </p> + <p> + Mischievous still, you perceive. Obstinate, likewise; almost as obstinate + as—you. + </p> + <p> + Augustus hints at some “unpleasant business” you have been engaged in + lately. I conclude some controversy, in which you have had to “hold your + own” more firmly than usual. Or new “enemies,”—business foes only of + course, about which you told me I must never grieve, as they were + unavoidable. I do not grieve; you will live down any passing animosity. It + will be all smooth sailing by-and-by. But in the meantime, why not tell + me? I am not a child—and—I am to be your wife, Max. + </p> + <p> + Ah, now the thorn is out, the one little sting of pain. It isn't this + child you were fond of, this ignorant, foolish, naughty child, it is your + wife, whom you yourself chose, to whom you yourself gave her place and her + rights, who comes to you with her heart full of love and says, “Max, tell + me!” + </p> + <p> + Now, no more of this, for I have much to tell you—I tell <i>you</i> + everything. + </p> + <p> + You know how quietly this winter has slipped away with us at. Rockmount; + how, from the time Penelope returned, she and I seemed to begin our lives + anew together, in one sense beginning almost as little children, living + entirely in the present; content with each day's work-and each day's + pleasure,—and it was wonderful how many small pleasures we found—never + allowing ourselves either to dwell on the future or revert to the past. + Except when by your desire. I told my sister of Francis's having passed + through the Insolvent Court, and how you were hoping to obtain for him a + situation as corresponding clerk. Poor Francis! all his grand German and + Spanish to have sunk down to the writing of a merchant's business-letters, + in a musty Liverpool office! Will he ever bear it? Well, except this time, + and once afterwards, his name has never been mentioned, either by Penelope + or me. + </p> + <p> + The second time happened thus—I did not tell you then, so I will + now. When our Christmas bills came in—our private ones, my sister + had no money to meet them. I soon guessed that—as, from your letter, + I had already guessed where her half-yearly allowance had gone. I was + perplexed, for though she now confides to me nearly everything of her + daily concerns, she has never told me <i>that</i>. Yet she must have known + I knew—that you would be sure to tell me. + </p> + <p> + At last, one morning, as I was passing the door of her room, she called me + in. + </p> + <p> + She was standing before a chest-of-drawers, which, I had noticed, she + always kept locked. But to-day the top drawer was open, and out of a small + jewel-case that lay on it, she had taken a string of pearls. “You remember + this?” + </p> + <p> + Ah, yes! But Penelope looked steadily at it; so, of course, did I. + </p> + <p> + “Have you any idea, Dora, what it is worth, or how much Sir William gave + for it?” + </p> + <p> + I knew: for Lisabel had told me herself, in the days when we were all + racking our brains to find out suitable marriage presents for the + governor's lady. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it would be wrong, or that the Trehernes would be annoyed, + if I sold it?” + </p> + <p> + “Sold it!” + </p> + <p> + “I have no money—and my bills must be paid. It is not dishonest to + sell what is one's own, though it may be somewhat painful.” + </p> + <p> + I could say nothing. The pain was keen—even to me. + </p> + <p> + She then reminded me how Mrs. Granton had once admired these pearls, + saying, when Colin married she should like to give her daughter-in-law + just such another necklace. + </p> + <p> + “If she would buy it now—if you would not mind asking her—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Dora.” + </p> + <p> + She replaced the necklace in its case, and gave it into my hand. I was + slipping out of the room, when she said:— + </p> + <p> + “One moment, child. There was something more I wished to say to you. Look + here.” + </p> + <p> + She unlocked drawer after drawer. There lay, carefully arranged, all her + wedding clothes, even to the white silk dress, the wreath and veil. + Everything was put away in Penelope's own tidy, over-particular fashion, + wrapped in silver paper, or smoothly folded, with sprigs of lavender + between. She must have done it leisurely and orderly, after her peculiar + habit, which made us, when she was only a girl of seventeen, teaze + Penelope by calling her “old maid!” + </p> + <p> + Even now, she paused more than once, to re-fold or re-arrange something—tenderly, + as one would arrange the clothes of a person who was dead—then + closed and locked every drawer, putting the key, not on her + household-bunch, but in a corner of her desk. + </p> + <p> + “I should not like anything touched in my lifetime, but, should I die—not + that this is likely; I believe I shall live to be an old woman—still, + should I die, you will know, where these things are. Do with them exactly + what you think best. And if money is wanted for—” She stopped, and + then, for the first time, I heard her pronounce his name, distinctly and + steadily, like any other name, “for Francis Charteris, or any one + belonging to him—sell them. You will promise?” + </p> + <p> + I promised. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Granton, dear soul! asked no questions, but took the necklace, and + gave me the money, which I brought to my sister. She received it without a + word. + </p> + <p> + After this, all went on as heretofore; and though sometimes I have felt + her eye upon me when I was opening your letters, as if she fancied there + might be something to hear, still, since there never was anything, I + thought it best to take no notice. But Max, I wished often, and wish now, + that you would tell me if there is any special reason why, for so many + weeks, you have never mentioned Francis? + </p> + <p> + I was telling you about Penelope. She has fallen into her old busy ways—busier + than ever, indeed. She looks well too, “quite herself again,” as Mrs. + Granton whispered to me, one morning when—wonderful event—I + had persuaded my sister that we ought to drive over to lunch at the + Cedars, and admire all the preparations for the reception of Mrs. Colin, + next month. + </p> + <p> + “I would not have liked to ask her,” added the good old lady; “but since + she did come, I am glad. The sight of my young folk's happiness will not + pain her? She has really got over her trouble, you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” I said hastily, for Penelope was coming up the greenhouse + walk. Yet when I observed her, it seemed not herself but a new self—such + as is only born of sorrow which smiled out of her poor thin face, made her + move softly, speak affectionately, and listen patiently to all the + countless details about “my Colin” and “my daughter Emily,” (bless the + dear old lady, I hope she will find her a real daughter). And though most + of the way home we were both more silent than usual, something in + Penelope's countenance made me, not sad or anxious, but inly awed, + marvelling at its exceeding peace. A peace such as I could have imagined + in those who had brought all their earthly possessions and laid them at + the apostles' feet; or holier still, and therefore happier,—who had + left all, taken up their cross, and followed <i>Him</i>. Him who through + His life and death taught the perfection of all sacrifice, self-sacrifice. + </p> + <p> + I may write thus, Max, may I not? It is like talking to myself, talking to + you. + </p> + <p> + It was on this very drive home that something happened, which I am going + to relate as literally as I can, for I think you ought to know it. It will + make you love my sister as I love her, which is saying a good deal. + </p> + <p> + Watching her, I almost—forgive, dear Max!—but I almost forgot + my letter to you, safely written overnight, to be posted on our way home + from the Cedars; till Penelope thought of a village post-office we had + just passed. + </p> + <p> + “Don't vex yourself, child,” she said, “you shall cross the moor again; + you will be quite in time; and I will drive round, and meet you just + beyond the ponds.” + </p> + <p> + And, in my hurry, utterly forgot that cottage you know, which she has + never yet been near, nor is aware who live in it. Not till I had posted my + letter, did I call to mind that she would be passing Mrs. Cartwright's + very door! + </p> + <p> + However, it was too late to alter plans, so I resolved not to fret about + it. And, somehow, the spring feeling came over me; the smell of + furze-blossoms, and of green leaves budding; the vague sense as if some + new blessing were coming with the coming year. And, though I had not Max + with me, to admire my one stray violet that I found, and listen to my lark—the + first, singing up in his white cloud, still I thought of you, and I loved + you! With a love that, I think, those only feel who have suffered, and + suffered together: a love that, though it may have known a few pains, has + never, thank God, known a single doubt. And so you did not feel so very + far away. + </p> + <p> + Then I walked on as fast as I could, to meet the pony-carriage, which I + saw crawling along the road round the turn—past the very cottage. My + heart beat so! But Penelope drove quietly on, looking straight before her. + She would have driven by in a minute; when, right across the road, in + front of the pony, after a dog or something, I saw run a child. + </p> + <p> + How I got to the spot I hardly know; how the child escaped I know still + less; it was almost a miracle. But there stood Penelope, with the little + fellow in her arms. He was unhurt—not even frightened. + </p> + <p> + I took him from her—she was still too bewildered to observe him much—besides, + a child alters so in six months. “He is all right you see. Run away, + little man.” + </p> + <p> + “Stop! there is his mother to be thought of,” said Penelope; “where does + he live? whose child is he?” + </p> + <p> + Before I could answer, the grandmother ran out, calling “Franky—Franky.” + </p> + <p> + It was all over. No concealment was possible. + </p> + <p> + I made my sister sit down by the roadside, and there, with her head on my + shoulder, she sat till her deadly paleness passed away, and two tears + slowly rose and rolled down her cheeks; but she said nothing. + </p> + <p> + Again I impressed upon her what a great comfort it was that the boy had + escaped without one scratch; for there he stood, having once more got away + from his granny, staring at us, finger in mouth, with intense curiosity + and enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + “Off with you! “—I cried more than once. But he kept his ground; and + when I rose to put him away—my sister held me. + </p> + <p> + Often I have noticed, that in her harshest days Penelope never disliked + nor was disliked by children. She had a sort of instinct for them. They + rarely vexed her, as we, or her servants, or her big scholars always + unhappily contrived to do. And she could always manage them, from the + squalling baby that she stopped to pat at a cottage door, to the raggedest + young scamp in the village, whom she would pick up after a pitched battle, + give a good scolding to, then hear all his tribulations, dry his dirty + face, and send him away with a broad grin upon it, such as was upon + Franky's now. + </p> + <p> + He came nearer, and put his brown little paws upon Penelope's silk gown. + </p> + <p> + “The pony,” she muttered; “Dora, go and see after the pony.” + </p> + <p> + But when I was gone, and she thought herself unseen, I saw her coax the + little lad to her side, to her arms, hold him there and kiss him;—oh! + Max, I can't write of it; I could not tell it to anybody but you. + </p> + <p> + After keeping away as long as was practicable, I returned, to find Franky + gone, and my sister walking slowly up and down; her veil was down, but her + voice and step had their usual “old-maidish” quietness,—if I dared + without a sob at the heart, even think that word concerning our Penelope! + </p> + <p> + Leaving her to get into the carriage, I just ran into the cottage to tell + Mrs. Cartwright what had happened, and assure her that the child had + received no possible harm; when, who should I see sitting over the fire + but the last person I ever expected to see in that place! + </p> + <p> + Did you know it?—was it by your advice he came?—what could be + his motive in coming? or was it done merely for a whim—-just like + Francis Charteris. + </p> + <p> + Anywhere else I believe I could not have recognised him. Not from his + shabbiness; even in rags Francis would be something of the gentleman; but + from his utterly broken-down appearance, his look of hopeless + indifference, settled discontent; the air of a man who has tried all + things and found them vanity. + </p> + <p> + Seeing me, he instinctively set down the child, who clung to his knees, + screaming loudly to “Daddy.” + </p> + <p> + Francis blushed violently, and then laughed. “The brat owns me, you see; + he has not forgotten me—likes me also a little, which cannot be said + for most people. Heyday, no getting rid of him? Come along then, young + man; I must e'en make the best of you.” + </p> + <p> + Franky, nothing loth, clambered up, hugged him smotheringly round the + neck, and broke into his own triumphant “Ha! ha! he! “—His father + turned and kissed him. + </p> + <p> + Then, somehow, I felt as if, it were easier to speak to Francis Charteris. + Only a word or two—enquiries about his health—how long he had + left Liverpool—and whether he meant to return. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Only a day's holiday. A horse in a mill—that is what I + am now. Nothing for it but to grind on to the end of the chapter—eh, + Franky my boy!” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! ha! he!” screamed the child, with another delighted hug. + </p> + <p> + “He seems fond of you,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes; he always was.” Francis sighed. I am sure, nature was tugging + hard at the selfish pleasure-loving heart. And pity—I know it was + not wrong, Max!—was pulling sore at mine. + </p> + <p> + I said I had heard of his illness in the winter, and was glad to find him + so much recovered:—how long had he been about again? + </p> + <p> + “How long? Indeed I forget. I am so apt to forget things now. Except “—he + added bitterly—“the clerk's stool and the office window with the + spider-webs over it—and the thirty shillings a-week. That's my + income, Dora—I beg your pardon, Miss Dora,—I forgot I was no + longer a gentleman, but a clerk at thirty shillings a-week.” + </p> + <p> + I said, I did not see why that should make him less of a gentleman; and, + broken-down as he was,—sitting crouching over the fire with his + sickly cheek passed against that rosy one,—I fancied I saw something + of the man—the honest, true man—flash across the forlorn + aspect of poor Francis Charteris. + </p> + <p> + I would have liked to stay and talk with him, and said so, but my sister + was outside. + </p> + <p> + “Is she? will she be coming in here?”—And he shrank nervously into + his corner. “I have been so ill, you know.” + </p> + <p> + He need not be afraid, I told him—we should have driven off in two + minutes. There was not the slightest chance of their meeting—in all + human probability he would never meet her more. + </p> + <p> + “Never more!” + </p> + <p> + I had not thought to see him so much affected. + </p> + <p> + “You were right, Dora, I never did deserve Penelope—yet there is + something I should like to have said to her. Stop, hold back the curtain—she + cannot see me sitting here?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + So, as she drove slowly past, Francis watched her; I felt more than glad—proud + that he should see the face which he had known blooming and young, and + which would never be either the one or the other again in this world, and + that he should see how peaceful and good it was. + </p> + <p> + “She is altered strangely.” + </p> + <p> + I asked, in momentary fear, did he think her looking out of health? + </p> + <p> + “Oh no—It is not that. I hardly know what it is;” then, as with a + sudden impulse, “I must go and speak to Penelope.” + </p> + <p> + And before I could hinder him, he was at the carriage side. + </p> + <p> + No fear of a “scene.” They met—oh Max, can any two people so meet + who have been lovers for ten years! + </p> + <p> + It might have been that the emotion of the last few minutes left her in + that state when no occurrence seemed unexpected or strange—but + Penelope, when she saw him, only gave a slight start;—and then + looked at him, straight in the face, for a minute or so. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to see that you have been ill.” + </p> + <p> + That one sentence must have struck him, as it did me, with the full + conviction of how they met—as Penelope and Francis no more—merely + Miss Johnston and Mr. Charteris. + </p> + <p> + “I have been ill,” he said, at last. “Almost at death's door. I should + have died, but for Doctor Urquhart and—one other person, whose name + I discovered by accident. I beg to thank her for her charity.” + </p> + <p> + He blushed scarlet in pronouncing the word. My sister tried to speak, but + he stopped her. + </p> + <p> + “Needless to deny.” + </p> + <p> + “I never deny what is true,” said Penelope gravely. “I only did what I + considered right, and what I would have done for any person whom I had + known so many years. Nor would I have done it at all, but that your uncle + refused.” + </p> + <p> + “I had rather owe it to you—twenty times over!” he cried. “Nay—you + shall not be annoyed with gratitude—I came but to own my debt—to + say, if I live, I will repay it; if I die—” + </p> + <p> + She looked keenly at him:—“You will not die.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? What have I to live for—a ruined, disappointed, disgraced + man? No, no—my chance is over for this world, and I do not care how + soon I get out of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I would rather hear of your living worthily in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Too late, too late.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed it is not too late.” + </p> + <p> + Penelope's voice was very earnest, and had a slight falter that startled + even me. No wonder it misled Francis,—he who never had a + particularly low opinion of himself, and who for so many years had been + fully aware of a fact—which, I once heard Max say, ought always to + make a man humble rather than vain—how deeply a fond woman had loved + him. + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean?” he asked eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “That you have no cause for all this despair. You are a young man still; + your health may improve; you are free from debt, and have enough to live + upon. Whatever disagreeables your position has, it is a beginning—you + may rise. A long and prosperous career may lie before you yet—I hope + so.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” + </p> + <p> + Max, I trembled. For he looked at her as he used to look when they were + young. And it seems so hard to believe that love ever can die out. I + thought, what if this exceeding calmness of my sister's should be only the + cloak which pride puts on to hide intolerable pain?—But I was + mistaken. And now I marvel, not that he, but that I—who know my + sister as a sister ought—could for an instant have seen in those + soft sad eyes anything beyond what her words expressed the more plainly, + as they were such extremely kind and gentle words. + </p> + <p> + Francis came closer, and said something in a low voice, of which I caught + only the last sentence,— + </p> + <p> + “Penelope, will you trust me again?” + </p> + <p> + I would have slipped away—but my sister detained me; tightly her + fingers closed on mine; but she answered Francis composedly: + </p> + <p> + “I do not quite comprehend you.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you forgive and forget? will you marry me?” + </p> + <p> + “Francis!” I exclaimed, indignantly; but Penelope put her hand upon my + mouth. + </p> + <p> + “That is right. Don't listen to Dora—she always hated me. Listen to + me. Penelope, you shall make me anything you choose; you would be the + saving of me—that is, if you could put up with such a broken, + sickly, ill-tempered wretch.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Francis!” and she just touched him with her hand. + </p> + <p> + He caught it and kept it. Then Penelope seemed to wake up as out of a + dream. + </p> + <p> + “You must not,” she said hurriedly; “you must not hold my hand.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I, do not love you any more.” + </p> + <p> + It was so; he could not doubt it. The vainest man alive must, I think, + have discerned at once that my sister spoke out of neither caprice or + revenge, but in simple sadness of truth. Francis must have felt almost by + instinct that, whether broken or not, the heart so long his, was his no + longer—the love was gone. + </p> + <p> + Whether the mere knowledge of this made his own revive, or whether finding + himself in the old familiar places—this walk was a favourite walk of + theirs—the whole feeling returned in a measure, I cannot tell; I do + not like to judge. But I am certain that, for the time, Francis suffered + acutely. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hate me then?” said he at length. + </p> + <p> + “No; on the contrary, I feel very kindly towards you. There is nothing in + the world I would not do for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Except marry me?” + </p> + <p> + “Even so.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well; perhaps you are right. I, a poor clerk, with neither health, + nor income, nor prospects—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, and no wonder, before the rebuke of my sister's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Francis, you know you are not speaking as you think. You know I have + given you my true reason, and my only one. If we were engaged still, in + outward form, I should say exactly the same, for a broken promise is less + wicked than a deceitful vow. One should not marry—one ought not—when + one has ceased to love.” + </p> + <p> + Francis made her no reply. The sense of all he had lost, now that he had + lost it, seemed to come upon him heavily, overwhelmingly. His first words + were the saddest and humblest I ever heard from Francis Charteris. + </p> + <p> + “I deserve it all. No wonder you will never forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + Penelope smiled—a very mournful smile. + </p> + <p> + “At your old habit of jumping at conclusions! Indeed, I have forgiven you + long ago. Perhaps, had I been less faulty myself, I might have had more + influence over you. But all was as it was to be, I suppose and it is over + now. Do not let us revive it.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed, and sat silent for a few moments, looking absently across the + moorland; then with a sort of wistful tenderness—the tenderness + which, one clearly saw, for ever prevents and excludes love—on + Francis. + </p> + <p> + “I know not how it is, Francis, but you seem to me Francis no longer—quite + another person. I cannot tell how the love has gone, but it is gone; as + completely as if it had never existed. Sometimes I was afraid if I saw you + it might come back again; but I have seen you, and it is not there. It + never can return again any more.” + </p> + <p> + “And so, from henceforth, I am no more to you than any stranger in the + street?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not say that—it would not be true. Nothing you do, will ever + be indifferent to me. If you do wrong—oh, Francis, it hurts me so! + it will hurt me to the day of my death. I care little for your being very + prosperous, or very happy, possibly no one is happy; but I want you to be + good. We were young together, and I was very proud of you:—let me be + proud of you again as we grow old.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you will not marry me?” + </p> + <p> + “No, for I do not love you; and never could again, no more than I could + love another woman's husband. Francis,” speaking almost in a whisper; “you + know as well as I do, that there is one person and only one, whom you + ought to marry.” + </p> + <p> + He shrank back, and for the second time—the first being when I found + him with his boy in his arms—Francis turned scarlet with honest + shame. + </p> + <p> + “Is it you—is it Penelope Johnston who can say this?” + </p> + <p> + “It is Penelope Johnston.” + </p> + <p> + “And you say it to me?” + </p> + <p> + “To you.” + </p> + <p> + “You think it would be right?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + There were long pauses between each of these questions, but my sister's + answers were unhesitating. The grave decision of them seemed to smite home—home + to the very heart of Francis Charteris. When his confusion and surprise + abated, he stood with eyes cast down, deeply pondering. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little soul!” he muttered. “So fond of me, too—fond and + faithful. She would be faithful to me to the end of my days.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe she would,” answered Penelope. + </p> + <p> + Here arose a piteous outcry of “Daddy, Daddy!” and little Franky, bursting + from the cottage, came and threw himself in a perfect paroxysm of joy upon + his father. Then I understood clearly how a good and religious woman like + our Penelope could not possibly have continued loving, or thought of + marrying, Francis Charteris, any more than if, as she said, he had been + another woman's husband. + </p> + <p> + “Dora, pray don't take the child away. Let him remain with his father.” + </p> + <p> + And from her tone, Francis himself must have felt—if further + confirmation were needed—that now and henceforth Penelope Johnston + could never view him in any other light than as Franky's father. + </p> + <p> + He submitted—it always was a relief to Francis to have things + decided for him. Besides, he seemed really fond of the boy. To see how + patiently he let Franky clamber up him, and finally mount on his shoulder, + riding astride, and making a bridle of his hair, gave one a kindly + feeling, nay, a sort of respect, for this poor sick man whom his child + comforted; and who, however erring he had been, was now, nor was ashamed + to be, a father. + </p> + <p> + “You don't hate me, Franky,” he said, with a sudden kiss upon the fondling + face. “You owe me no grudge, though you might, poor little scamp! You are + not a bit ashamed of me; and, by God! (it was more a vow than an oath) + I'll never be ashamed of you.” + </p> + <p> + “I trust in God you never will,” said Penelope, solemnly. + </p> + <p> + And then, with that peculiar softness of voice, which I now notice + whenever she speaks of or to children, she said a few words, the substance + of which I remember Lisabel and myself quizzing her for, years ago, + irritating her with the old joke about old bachelor's wives and old maids' + children—namely, that those who are childless, and know they will + die so, often see more clearly and feel more deeply, than parents + themselves, the heavy responsibilities of parenthood. + </p> + <p> + Not that she said this exactly, but you could read it in her eyes, as in a + few simple words she praised Franky's beauty, hinted what a solemn thing + it was to own such a son, and, if properly brought up, what a comfort he + might grow. + </p> + <p> + Francis listened with a reverence that was beyond all love, and a humility + touching to see. I, too, silently observing them both, could not help + hearkening even with a sort of awe to every word that fell from the lips + of my sister Penelope. All the while hearing, in a vague fashion, the last + evening song of my lark, as he went up merrily into his cloud,—just + as I have watched him, or rather his progenitors, numberless times; when, + along this very road, I used to lag behind Francis and Penelope, wondering + what on earth they were talking about, and how queer it was that they + never noticed anything or anybody except one another. + </p> + <p> + Heigho! how times change! + </p> + <p> + But no sighing: I could not sigh, I did not. My heart was full, Max, but + not with pain. For I am learning to understand what you often said, what I + suppose we shall see clearly in the next life if not in this—that + the only permanent pain on earth is sin. And, looking in my sister's dear + face, I felt how blessed above all mere happiness, is the peace of those + who have suffered and overcome suffering, who have been sinned against and + have forgiven. + </p> + <p> + After this, when Franky, tired out, dropped suddenly asleep, as children + do, his father and Penelope talked a good while, she inquiring, in her + sensible, practical way, about his circumstances and prospects; he + answering, candidly and apparently truthfully without any hesitation, + anger, or pride; every now and then looking down, at the least movement of + the pretty, sleepy face; while a soft expression, quite new in Francis + Charteris, brightened his own. There was even a degree of cheerfulness and + hope in his manner, as he said, in reply to some suggestion of my + sister's:—“Then you think, as Doctor Urquhart did, that my life is + worth preserving—that I may turn out not such a bad man after all?” + </p> + <p> + “How could a man be anything but a good man, who really felt what it is to + be the father of a child?” + </p> + <p> + Francis replied nothing, but he held his little son closer to his breast. + Who knows but that the pretty boy may be heaven's messenger to save the + father's soul? + </p> + <p> + You see, Max, I still like, in my old moralizing habit, to “justify the + ways of God to men,” to try and perceive the use of pain, the reason of + punishment; and to feel, not only by faith, but experience, that, dark as + are the ways of Infinite Mercy, they are all safe ways. “<i>All things + work together for good to them that love Him.</i>” + </p> + <p> + And so, watching these two, talking so quietly and friendly together, I + thought how glad my Max would be; I remembered all my Max had done—Penelope + knows it now; I told her that night. And, sad and anxious as I am about + you and many things, there came over my heart one of those sudden sunshiny + refts of peace, when we feel that whether or not all is happy, all is + well. + </p> + <p> + Francis walked along by the pony-carriage for a quarter of a mile, or + more. + </p> + <p> + “I must turn now. This little man ought to have been in his bed an hour or + more: he always used to be. His mother—” Francis stopped—“I + beg your pardon.” Then, hugging the boy in a sudden passion of remorse, he + said, “Penelope, if you want your revenge, take this. You cannot tell what + a man feels, who, when the heyday of youth is gone, longs for a home, a + virtuous home, yet knows that he never can offer or receive unblemished + honour with his wife—never give his lawful name to his first-born.” + </p> + <p> + This was the sole allusion made openly to what both tacitly understood was + to be, and which you, as well as we, will agree is the best thing that can + be, under the circumstances. + </p> + <p> + And here I have to say to you, both from my sister and myself, that if + Francis desires to make Lydia Cartwright his wife, and she is willing, + tell them both that if she will come direct from the gaol to Rockmount, we + will receive her kindly, provide everything suitable for her (since + Francis must be very poor, and they will have to begin housekeeping on the + humblest scale), and take care that she is married in comfort and credit. + Also, say that former things shall never be remembered against her, but + that she shall be treated henceforward with the respect due to Francis's + wife; in some things, poor loving soul! a better wife than he deserves. + </p> + <p> + So he left us. Whether in this world he and Penelope will ever meet again, + who knows? He seemed to have a foreboding that they never will, for, in + parting, he asked, hesitatingly, if she would shake hands? + </p> + <p> + She did so, looking earnestly at him,—her first love, who, had he + been true to himself and to her, might have been her love for ever. Then I + saw her eye wander down to the little head which nestled on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Will you kiss my boy, Penelope?” + </p> + <p> + My sister leaned over, and touched Franky's forehead with her lips. + </p> + <p> + “God bless him! God bless you all?” + </p> + <p> + These were her last words, and however long both may live, I have a + conviction that they will be her last words—to Francis Charteris. + </p> + <p> + He went back to the cottage; and through the rosy spring twilight, with a + strangely solemn feeling, as if we were entering upon a new spring in + another world, Penelope and I drove home. + </p> + <p> + And now, Max, I have told you all about these. About myself—No, I'll + not try to deceive you; God knows how true my heart is, and how sharp and + sore is this pain. + </p> + <p> + Dear Max, write to me;—if there is any trouble, I can bear it; any + wrong—supposing Max could do me wrong—I'll forgive. I fear + nothing, and nothing has power to grieve me, so long as you hold me fast, + as I hold you. + </p> + <p> + Your faithful + </p> + <p> + Theodora. + </p> + <p> + P.S.—A wonderful, wonderful thing—it only happened last night. + It hardly feels real yet. + </p> + <p> + Max, last night, after I had done reading, papa mentioned your name of his + own accord. + </p> + <p> + He said, Penelope in asking his leave, as we thought it right to do before + we sent that message to Lydia, had told him the whole story about your + goodness to Francis. He then enquired abruptly how long it was since I had + seen Doctor Urquhart? + </p> + <p> + I told him, never since that day in the library—now a year ago. + </p> + <p> + “And when do you expect to see him?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know.” And all the bitterness of parting—the terrors lest + life's infinite chances should make this parting perpetual—the + murmurs that will rise, why hundreds and thousands who care little for one + another should be always together, whilst we—we—Oh Max! it all + broke out in a sob, “Papa, papa, how <i>can</i> I know?” + </p> + <p> + My father looked at me as if he would read me through. + </p> + <p> + “You are a good girl, and an honourable. He is honourable too. He would + never persuade a child to disobey her father.” + </p> + <p> + “No, never!” + </p> + <p> + “Tell him,”—and papa turned his head away, but he did say it, I + could not mistake, “tell Doctor Urquhart if he likes to come over to + Rockmount, for one day only, I shall not see him, but you may.” + </p> + <p> + Max, come. Only for one day of holiday rest. It would do you good. There + are green leaves in the garden, and sunshine and larks in the moorland, + and—there is me. Come! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. HIS STORY. + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y dear Theodora, + </p> + <p> + I did not write, because I could not. In some states of mind nothing seems + possible to a man but silence. Forgive me, my love, my comfort and joy. + </p> + <p> + I have suffered much, but it is over now, at least the suspense of it; and + I can tell you all, with the calmness that I myself now feel. You are + right; we love one another; we need not be afraid of any tribulation. + </p> + <p> + Before entering on my affairs, let me answer your letter—all but its + last word, “Come!” My other self, my better conscience, will herself + answer that. + </p> + <p> + The substance of what you tell me, I already know. Francis Charteris came + to me on Sunday week, and asked for Lydia. They were married two days + after—I gave the bride away. Since then I have drank tea with them + at his lodging, which, poor as it is, has already the cheerful comfort of + a home with a woman in it, and that woman a wife. + </p> + <p> + I left them—Mr. Charteris sitting by the fire with his boy on his + knee; he seems passionately fond of the little scapegrace, who is, as you + said, his very picture. But more than once I caught his eyes following + Lydia with a wistful, grateful tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “The most sensible practical girl imaginable,” he said, during her + momentary absence from the room; “and she knows all my ways, and is so + patient with them. 'A poor wench,' as Shakspere hath it. 'A poor wench, + sir, but mine own!'” + </p> + <p> + For her, she busied herself about house-matters, humble and silent, except + when her husband spoke to her, and then her whole face brightened. Poor + Lydia! None familiar with her story are likely to see much of her again; + Mr. Charteris seems to wish, and for very natural reasons, that they + should begin the world entirely afresh; but we may fairly believe one + thing concerning her as concerning another poor sinner,—“<i>Her + sins, which were many, are forgiven, for she loved much</i>.” + </p> + <p> + After I returned from them, I found your letter. It made me cease to feel + what I have often felt of late, as if hope were knocking at every door + except mine. + </p> + <p> + I told you once, never to be ashamed of showing me that you love me. Do + not be; such love is a woman's glory, and a man's salvation. + </p> + <p> + Let me now say what is to be said about myself, beginning at the + beginning. + </p> + <p> + I mentioned to you once that I had here a good many enemies, but that I + should soon live them down; which, for some time, I hoped and believed, + and still believe that it would have been so, under ordinary + circumstances. + </p> + <p> + I have ever held that truth is stronger than falsehood, that an honest man + has but to sit still, let the storm blow over, and bide his time. It does + not shake this doctrine that things have fallen out differently with me. + </p> + <p> + For some time I had seen the cloud gathering; caught evil reports flying + about; noticed that in society or in public meetings, now and then an + acquaintance gave me the “cold shoulder.” Also, what troubled me more, for + it was a hindrance felt daily, my influence and authority in the gaol did + not seem quite what they used to be. I met no tangible affront, certainly, + and all was tolerably smooth sailing, till I had to find fault, and then, + as you know, a feather will show which way the wind blows! + </p> + <p> + It was a new experience, for, at the worst of times, in camp or hospital, + my poor fellows always loved me—I found it hard. + </p> + <p> + More scurrilous newspaper paragraphs, the last and least obnoxious of + which I sent you lest you might hear of it in some other way, followed + those proceedings of mine concerning reformatories. Two articles—the + titles, “Physician, heal thyself,” and “Set a thief to catch a thief,” + will give you an idea of their tenor—went so far as to be actionable + libels. Several persons here, our chaplain especially, urged me to take + legal proceedings in defence of my character, but I declined. + </p> + <p> + One day, arguing the point, the chaplain pressed me for my reasons, which + I gave him, and will give you, for I have since had only too much occasion + to remember them literally. + </p> + <p> + I said I had always had an instinctive dislike and dread of the law; that + a man was good for little if he could not defend himself by any better + weapons than the verdict of an ignorant jury, and a specious, sometimes + lying, barrister's tongue. + </p> + <p> + The old clergyman, alarmed, “hoped I was not a duellist,” at which I only + smiled. It never occurred to me to take the trouble of denying any such + ridiculous purpose. I knew not how, when once the ball is set rolling + against a man, his lightest words are made to gather weight and meaning, + his very looks are brought in judgment upon him. It is the way of the + world. + </p> + <p> + You see I can moralize, a sign that I am recovering myself; I think, with + the relief of telling all out to you. + </p> + <p> + “But,” reasoned the chaplain, “when a man is innocent, why should he not + declare it? Why sit tamely under calumny? It is unwise,—nay, unsafe. + You are almost a stranger here, and we in the provinces like to find out + everything about everybody. If I might suggest,” and he apologized for + what he called the friendly impertinence, “why not be a little less + modest, a little more free with your personal history, which must have a + remarkable one, and let some friend, in a quiet, delicate way, see that + the truth is as widely disseminated as the slander? If you will trust me—” + </p> + <p> + “I could not choose a better pleader,” said I, gratefully; “but it is + impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “How so? A man like you can have nothing to dread—nothing to + conceal.” + </p> + <p> + I said again, all I could find words to say:— + </p> + <p> + “It is impossible.” + </p> + <p> + He urged no more, but I soon felt painfully certain that some involuntary + distrust lurked in the good man's mind, and though he continued the same + to me in all our business relations, a cloud came over our private + intercourse, which was never removed. + </p> + <p> + About this time another incident occurred; You know I have a little friend + here, the governor's motherless daughter, a bonnie wee child whom I meet + in the garden sometimes, where we water her flowers, and have long chats + about birds, beasts, and the wonders of foreign parts. I even have given a + present or two to this, my child-sweetheart. Are you jealous? She has your + eyes! + </p> + <p> + Well, one day when I called Lucy, she came to me slowly, with a shy, sad + countenance; and I found out after some pains, that her nurse had desired + her not to play with Doctor Urquhart again, because he was “naughty.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Urquhart smilingly inquired what he had done? + </p> + <p> + The child hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Nurse does not exactly know, but she says it is something very wicked—as + wicked as anything done by the bad people in here. But it isn't true—tell + Lucy it isn't true?” + </p> + <p> + It was hard to put aside the little loving face, but I saw the nurse + coming. Not an ill-meaning body, but one whom I knew for as arrant a + gossip as any about this place. Her comments on myself troubled me little; + I concluded it was but the result of that newspaper tattle, against which + I was gradually growing hardened; nevertheless, I thought it best just to + say that I had heard with much surprise what she had been telling Miss + Lucy. + </p> + <p> + “Children and fools speak truth,” said the woman saucily. + </p> + <p> + “Then you ought to be the more careful that children always hear the + truth.” And I insisted upon her repeating all the ridiculous tales she had + been circulating about me. + </p> + <p> + When, with difficulty, I got the facts out of her, they were not what I + expected, but these: Somebody in the gaol had told somebody else how Dr. + Urquhart had been in former days such an abandoned character, that still + his evil conscience always drove him among criminals; made him haunt + gaols, prisons, reformatories, and take an interest in every form of vice. + Nay, people had heard me say—and truly they might!—<i>apropos</i> + to a late hanging at Kirkdale—that I had sympathy even for a + murderer. + </p> + <p> + I listened—you will imagine how—to all this. + </p> + <p> + For an instant I was overwhelmed; I felt as if God had forsaken me; as if + His mercy were a delusion; His punishments never-ending; His justice never + satisfied. Despite my promise to your father, I might, in some fatal way, + have betrayed myself, even on the spot, had I not heard the little girl + saying, with a sob, almost—poor pet!— + </p> + <p> + “For shame, nurse! Doctor Urquhart isn't a wicked man; Lucy loves him.” + </p> + <p> + And I remembered you. + </p> + <p> + “My child,” I said, in a whisper, “we are all wicked; but we may all be + forgiven; I trust God has forgiven me;” and I walked away without another + word. + </p> + <p> + But since then I have thought it best to avoid the governor's garden; and + it has cost me more pain than you would imagine—the contriving + always to pass at a distance, so as to get only a nod and smile, which + cannot harm her, from little Lucy. + </p> + <p> + About this time—it might be two or three days after, for out of + work-hours I little noticed how time passed—an unpleasant + circumstance occurred with Lucy's father. + </p> + <p> + I must have told you of him; for he is a remarkable man—young still, + and well-looking; with manners like his features, hard as iron, though + delicate and polished as steel. He seems born to be the ruler of + criminals. Brutality, meanness, or injustice would be impossible to him. + Likewise, another thing—mercy. + </p> + <p> + It was on this point that he and I had our difference. + </p> + <p> + We met in the east ward, when he pointed out to me, in passing, the + announcement on the centre slate of “a boy to be whipped.” + </p> + <p> + It seems ridiculous, but the words sickened me. For I knew the boy, knew + also his offence; and that such a punishment would be the first step + towards converting a mere headstrong lad, sent here for a street row, + into, a hardened ruffian. I pleaded for him strongly. + </p> + <p> + The governor listened—polite, but inflexible. + </p> + <p> + I went on speaking with unusual warmth; you know my horror of these + floggings; you know, too, my opinion on the system of punishment, viewed + as mere punishment, with no ulterior aim at reformation. I believe it is + only our blinded human interpretation of things spiritual, which + transforms the immutable law that evil is its own avenger and that the + wrath of God against sin must be as everlasting as His pity for sinners—into + the doctrine of eternal torment, the worm that dieth not, and the fire + that is never quenched. + </p> + <p> + The governor heard all I had to say; then, politely always, regretted that + it was impossible either to grant my request, or release me from my duty. + </p> + <p> + “There is, however, one course which I may suggest to Doctor Urquhart, + considering his very peculiar opinions, and his known sympathy with + criminals. Do you not think, it might be more agreeable to you to resign?” + </p> + <p> + The words were nothing; but as he fixed on me that keen eye, which, he + boasts can, without need of judge or jury detect a man's guilt or + innocence, I felt convinced that with him too my good name was gone. It + was no longer a battle with mere side-winds of slander—the storm had + begun. + </p> + <p> + I might have sunk like a coward, if there were only myself to be crushed + under it. As it was, I looked the governor in the face. + </p> + <p> + “Have you any special motive for this suggestion?” + </p> + <p> + “I have stated it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then allow me to state, that whatever my opinions may be, so long as my + services are useful here, I have not the slightest wish or intention of + resigning.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed, and we parted. + </p> + <p> + The boy was flogged. I said to him, “Bear it; better confess,”—as he + had done—“confess and be punished now. It will then be over.” And I + hope, by the grateful look of the poor young wretch, that with the pain, + the punishment was over; that my pity helped him to endure it, so that it + did not harden him, but, with a little help, he may become an honest lad + yet. + </p> + <p> + When I left him in his cell, I rather envied him. + </p> + <p> + It now became necessary to look to my own affairs, and discover if + possible, all that report alleged against me—false or true—as + well as the originator of these statements. Him I at last by the merest + chance discovered. + </p> + <p> + My little lady, with her quick, warm feelings, must learn to forgive, as I + have long ago forgiven. It was Mr. Francis Charteris. + </p> + <p> + I believe still, it was less from malice premeditated, than from a mere + propensity for talking, and that looseness and inaccuracy of speech which + he always had—that he, when idling away his time in the debtor's + ward of this gaol, repeated, probably with extempore additions, what your + sister Penelope once mentioned to him concerning me—namely, that I + was once about to be married, when the lady's father discovered a crime I + had committed in my youth—whether dishonesty, duelling, seduction, + or what, he could not say—but it was something absolutely + unpardonable by an honourable man, and the marriage was forbidden. On + this, all the reports against me had been grounded. + </p> + <p> + After hearing this story, which one of the turnkeys whose children were + down with fever, told me while watching by their bedside, begging my + pardon for doing it, honest man! I went and took a long walk down the + Waterloo shore, to calm myself, and consider my position. For I knew it + was in vain to struggle any more. I was ruined. + </p> + <p> + An innocent man might have fought on; how any one, with a clear + conscience, is ever conquered by slander, or afraid of it, I cannot + understand. With a clean heart, and truth on his tongue, a man ought to be + as bold as a lion. I should have been; but—My love, you know. + </p> + <p> + This Waterloo shore has always been a favourite haunt of mine. You once + said, you should like to live by the sea; and I have never heard the + ripple of the tide without thinking of you—never seen the little + children playing about and digging on the sands without thinking—God + help me! if one keeps silence, it is not because one does not feel the + knife. + </p> + <p> + “Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him?” + </p> + <p> + Let me stop. I will not pain you, my love, more than I can help. Besides, + as I told you, the worst of my suffering is ended. + </p> + <p> + I believe I must have sat till night-fall among the sand-hills by the + shore. For years to come, if I live so long, I shall see as clear and also + as unreal as a painting—that level sea-line, along which moved the + small white silent ships, and the steamers, with their humming + paddle-wheels and their trailing thread of smoke, dropping one after the + other into what some one of your favourite poets, my child, calls “the + under world.” There seemed a great weight on my head—a weariness all + over me. I did not feel anything much, after the first half-hour; except a + longing to see your little face once again, and then, if it were God's + will, to lie down and die, somewhere near you, quietly, giving no trouble + to you or to any one any more. You will remember, I was not in my usual + health, and had had extra hard work, for some little time. + </p> + <p> + Well, my dear one, this is enough about myself, that day. I went home and + fell into harness as usual; there was nothing to be done but to wait till + the storm burst, and I wished for many reasons to retain my situation at + the gaol as long as possible. + </p> + <p> + But it was a difficult time; rising to each day's duty, with total + uncertainty of what might happen before night: and, duty done, struggling + against a depression such as I have not known for these many years. In the + midst of it came your dear letters—cheerful, loving, contented—unwontedly + contented they seemed to me. I could not answer them, for to have written + in a false strain was impossible, and to tell you everything seemed + equally so. I said to myself, “No, poor child! she will learn all soon + enough. Let her be happy while she can.” + </p> + <p> + I was wrong; I was unjust to you and to myself. From the hour you gave me + your love, I owed it to us both to give you my full confidence, as much as + if you were my wife. I had no right to wound your dear heart by keeping + back from it any sorrows of mine. Forgive me, and forgive something else, + which, I now see, was crueller still. + </p> + <p> + Theodora, I wished many times that you were free; that I had never bound + you to my hard lot, but kept silence and left you to forget me, to love + some one else better than me—pardon, pardon! + </p> + <p> + For I was once actually on the point of writing to you, saying this, when + I remembered something you had said long ago,—that whether or no we + were ever married you were glad we had been betrothed—that so far we + might always be a help and comfort to one another. For, you added, when I + was blaming myself, and talking as men do of “honour,” and “pride”—to + have left you free when you were not free, would have given you all the + cares of love, with neither its rights, nor duties, nor sweetnesses; and + this might—you did not say it would—but it might have broken + your heart. + </p> + <p> + So in my bitter strait I trusted that pure heart, whose instinct, I felt, + was truer than all my wisdom. I did not write the letter, but at the same + time, as I have told you, it was impossible to write any other, even a + single line. + </p> + <p> + Your last letter came. Happily, it reached me the very morning when the + crisis which I had been for weeks expecting, occurred. I had it in my + pocket all the time I stood in that room before those men,—but I had + best relate from the beginning. + </p> + <p> + You are aware that any complaints respecting the officers of this gaol, or + questions concerning its internal management, are laid before the visiting + justices. Thus, after the governor's hint, on every board day, I prepared + myself for a summons. At length it came; ostensibly for a very trivial + matter—some relaxation of discipline which I had ordered and been + counteracted in. But my conduct had never been called into question + before, and I knew what it implied. The very form of it—“The + governor's compliments, and he requests Doctor Urquhart's attendance in + the board-room;”—instead of “Doctor, come up to my room and talk the + matter over,” was sufficient indication of what was impending. + </p> + <p> + I found present, besides the governor and chaplain, an unusual number of + magistrates. These, who are not always or necessarily gentlemen, stared at + me as if I had been some strange beast, all the time I was giving my brief + evidence about the breach of regulations complained of. It was soon + settled, for I had been careful to keep within the letter of the law, and + I made a motion to take leave, when one of the justices requested me to + “wait a bit, they hadn't done with me yet.” + </p> + <p> + These sort of men, low-born—not that that is any disgrace, but a + glory, unless accompanied with a low nature—and “dressed in a little + brief authority,” one often meets with here; I was well used to deal with, + them, and to their dealings with the like of me—a poor professional, + whose annual income was little more than they would expend, carelessly, + upon one of their splendid “feeds.” But, until lately, among my co-mates + in office, I had been both friendly and popular. Now, they took their tone + from the rest, and even the governor and-the chaplain preserved towards me + a rigid silence. You do not know our old mess phrase of being “sent to + Coventry.” If you did, you would understand how those ten minutes that, + according to my orders, I sat aloof from the board, while other business + was proceeding, were not the pleasantest possible. + </p> + <p> + Men amongst men grow hard, are liable to evil passions, fits of pride, + hatred, and revenge, that are probably unfamiliar to you sweet women. It + was well I had your letter in my pocket. Besides, there is something in + coming to the crisis of a great misfortune which braces up a man's nerves + to meet it. So, when the governor, turning round in his always courteous + tone, said the board requested a few minutes' conversation with me, I + could rise and stand steady, to meet whatever shape of hard fortune lay + before me. + </p> + <p> + The governor, like most men of non-intrusive but iron will, who have both + temper and feelings perfectly under control, has a very strong influence + wherever he goes. It was he who opened and carried on with me, what he + politely termed, a “little conversation.” + </p> + <p> + “These difficulties,” continued he, after referring to the dismissed + complaint of my straining the rules of the gaol to their utmost limit, + from my “sympathy with criminals,” “these unpleasantnesses, Doctor + Urquhart, will, I fear, be always occurring. Have you reconsidered the + hint I gave to you, some little time ago?” + </p> + <p> + I answered that it was rarely my habit to take hints; I preferred having + all things spoken right out. + </p> + <p> + “Such candour is creditable, though not always possible or advisable. I + should have been exceedingly glad if you had saved me from what I feel to + be my duty, however painful, namely, to repeat my private suggestion + publicly.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that I should tender my resignation.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse my saying—and the board agrees with me—that such a + step seems desirable, for many reasons.” + </p> + <p> + I waited, and then asked for those reasons. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Urquhart must surely be aware of them.” + </p> + <p> + A man is not bound to rush madly into his ruin. I determined to die + fighting, at any rate. I said, addressing the board:— + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen, I am not aware of having conducted myself in any manner that + unfits me for being surgeon to this gaol. Any slight differences between + the governor and myself, are mere matters of opinion, which signify + little, so long as neither trenches on the other's authority, and both are + amenable to the regulations of the establishment. If you have any cause of + complaint against me, state it, reprove or dismiss me, it is your right; + but no one has a right without just grounds to request me to resign.” + </p> + <p> + The governor, even through that handsome, impassive, masked countenance of + his, looked annoyed. For an instant his hard manner dropped into the old + friendliness, even as when, in the first few weeks after his wife's death, + he and I used to sit playing chess together of evenings, with little Lucy + between us. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor, why will you misapprehend me? It is for your own sake that I + wish, before the matter is opened up further, you should resign your + post.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment's consideration, I requested him to explain himself more + clearly. + </p> + <p> + One of the magistrates here cried out with a laugh:—“Come, come, + doctor, no shamming. You are the town's talk.” And another suggested that + “Brown had better mind his P's and Q's; there were such things as actions + for libel.” + </p> + <p> + I replied if the gentlemen referred to the scurrilous allegations against + me which had appeared in print, they might speak without fear; I had no + intention of prosecuting for libel. This silenced them a moment, and then + the first magistrate said:— + </p> + <p> + “Give a dog a bad name and hang him; but surely, doctor, you can't be + aware what a very bad name you have somehow got in these parts, or you + would have been more eager to draw your neck out of the halter in time. + Why, bless my soul, man alive, do you know what folk make you out to be?” + </p> + <p> + “This discussion is growing foreign to the matter in hand,” interrupted + the governor, who I felt had never taken his sharp eyes off me. “The + question is merely this: that any officer in authority among criminals + must of necessity bear an unblemished character. Neither in the + establishment nor out of it ought people to be able to say of him that—that—” + </p> + <p> + “Say it out, sir.”—“That there were circumstances in his former life + which would not bear inspection, and that merely accident drew the line + between himself and the convicts he was bent on reforming.” + </p> + <p> + “Hear, hear!” said a justice, who had long thwarted me in my schemes; + having a conscientious objection to reforming everybody—including + himself. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said the governor. “I did not give this as a fact,—only a + report. These reports have come to such a height, that they must either be + proved or denied. And therefore I wished, before any public inquiry became + necessary—unless, indeed, Doctor Urquhart will consent to the + explanatory self-defence which he definitely refused Mr. Thorley—” + </p> + <p> + And they both looked anxiously at me—these two whom I have always + found honest, honorable men, and who were once my friends, or at least + friendly associates—the chaplain and the governor. + </p> + <p> + Theodora, no one need ever dread lest the doctrine of total forgiveness + should make guilt no burthen, and repentance pleasant and easy. There are + some consequences of sin which must haunt a sinner to the day of his + death. + </p> + <p> + It might have been one minute or ten, that I stood motionless, feeling as + if I could have given up life and all its blessings without a pang, to be + able to face those men with a clear conscience, and say, “It is all a lie. + I am innocent.” + </p> + <p> + Then, for my salvation, came the thought—it seemed spoken into my + ear, the voice half like Dallas's, half like yours—“If God hath + forgiven thee, why be afraid of men?” And I said, humbly enough—yet, + I trust, without any cringing or abjectness of fear—that I wished, + before taking any further step, to hear the whole of the statements + current against myself, and how far they were credited by the gentlemen + before me. + </p> + <p> + The accusation, I was informed, stood thus: floating rumours having + accumulated into a substantive form—terribly near the truth! that I + had, in my youth, either here or abroad, committed some crime which + rendered me amenable to the laws of my country; and though, by some trick + of law, I had escaped justice, the ban upon me was such, that only by the + wandering life which I myself had owned to having led, could I escape the + fury of public opinion. The impression against me was now so strong, in + the gaol and out of it, that the governor would not engage even by his own + authority to preserve mine unless I furnished him with an immediate, + explicit denial to this charge. Which, he was pleased to say, if it had + not been so widely spread, so mysterious in its origin, and so oddly + corroborated by accidental admissions on my part, he should have treated + as simply ridiculous. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” he added, apparently re-assured by the composure with which I + had listened, “I have only to ask you to deny it, point-blank, before the + board and myself.” + </p> + <p> + I asked, what must I deny? + </p> + <p> + “Why, if the accusations were not too ludicrous to express, just state + that you are neither forger, burglar, nor body-snatcher; that you never + either killed a man (unprofessionally, of course, if we may be excused the + joke)—for professional purposes, or shot him irregularly in a duel, + or waylaid him with pistols behind a hedge.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I supposed to have committed all these crimes?” + </p> + <p> + “Such is the gullibility of the public; you really are,” said the + governor, smiling. + </p> + <p> + On the indignant impulse of the moment, I denied them each and all, upon + my honor as a gentleman; until, feeling the old chaplain cordially grip my + hand, I was roused into a full consciousness of where and what I was, and + what, either by word or implication, I had been asserting. + </p> + <p> + Somebody said, “Give him air; no wonder he feels it, poor fellow!” And so, + after a little, I gathered up my faculties, and saw the board sitting + waiting; and the governor with pen and ink before him. + </p> + <p> + “This painful business will soon be settled, Doctor,” said he cheerfully. + “Just answer a question or two, which, as a matter of form, I will put in + writing, and then, if you will do me the honour to dine with me to-day, we + can consult how best to make the statement public; without of course + compromising your dignity. To begin. You hereby make declaration that you + were never in gaol? never tried at any assizes? have never committed any + act which rendered you liable to prosecution under our criminal law?” + </p> + <p> + He ran the words off carelessly, and paused for my answer. When none came, + he looked up, his own penetrative, suspicious look. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I did not express myself clearly?” And he slightly changed the + form of the sentence. “Now, what shall I write, Doctor Urquhart?”. + </p> + <p> + If I could then and there have made full confession, and gone out of that + room an arrested prisoner, it would have been, so far as regarded myself, + a relief unutterable, a mercy beyond all mercies. But I had to remember + your father. + </p> + <p> + The governor laid down his pen. + </p> + <p> + “This looks, to say the least, rather strange.” + </p> + <p> + “Doctor,” cried one of the board, “you must be mad to hold your tongue and + let your character go to the dogs in this way.” + </p> + <p> + Alas, I was not mad; I saw all that was vanishing from me—inevitably, + irredeemably—my good name, my chance of earning a livelihood, my + sweet hope of a home and a wife. And I might save everything, and keep my + promise to your father also, by just one little lie! + </p> + <p> + Would you have had me utter it? No, love; I know you would rather have had + me die. + </p> + <p> + The sensation was like dying, for one minute, and then it passed away. I + looked steadily at my accusers; for accusation, at all events strong + suspicion, was in every countenance now; and told them that though I had + not perpetrated a single one of the atrocious crimes laid to my charge, + still the events of my life had been peculiar; and circumstances left me + no option but the course I had hitherto pursued, namely, total silence. + That if my good character were strong enough to sustain me through it, I + would willingly retain my post at the gaol, and weather the storm as I + best could. If this course were impossible— + </p> + <p> + “It is impossible,” said the governor, decisively. + </p> + <p> + “Then I have no alternative but to tender my resignation.” + </p> + <p> + It was accepted at once. + </p> + <p> + I went out from the board-room a disgraced man, with a stain upon my + character which will last for life, and follow me wherever I plant my + foot. The honest Urquhart name, which my father bore, and Dallas—which + I ought to have given stainless to my wife, and left—if I could + leave nothing else—to my children—ay, it was gone. Gone, for + ever and ever. + </p> + <p> + I stole up into my own rooms, and laid myself down on my bed, as + motionless as if it had been my coffin. + </p> + <p> + Fear not, my love; one sin was saved me, perhaps by your letter of that + morning. The wretchedest, most hopeless, most guilty of men would never + dare to pray for death so long as he knew that a good woman loved him. + </p> + <p> + When daylight failed, I bestirred myself, lit my lamp, and began to make a + few preparations and arrangements about my rooms—it being clear + that, wherever I went, I must quit this place as soon as possible. + </p> + <p> + My mind was almost made up as to the course I ought to pursue; and that of + itself calmed me. I was soon able to sit down, and begin this letter to + you; but got no further than the first three words, which, often as I have + written them, look as new, strange, and precious as ever: “<i>My dear + Theodora</i>.” Dear,—God knows how infinitely! and mine—altogether + and everlastingly mine. I felt this, even now. In the resolution I had + made, no doubts shook me with respect to you; for you would bid me to do + exactly what conscience urged—ay, even if you differed from me. You + said once, with your arms round my neck, and your sweet eyes looking up + steadfastly in mine:—“Max, whatever happens, always do what you + think to be right, without reference to me. I would love you all the + better for doing it, even if you broke my heart.” + </p> + <p> + I was pondering thus, planning how best to tell you of things so sore; + when there came a knock to my room-door. Expecting no one but a servant, I + said “Come in,” and did not even look up—for every creature in the + gaol must be familiar with my disgrace by this time. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Urquhart, do I intrude?” + </p> + <p> + It was the chaplain. + </p> + <p> + Theodora, if I have ever in my letters implied a word against him—for + the narrowness and formality of his religious belief sometimes annoyed and + were a hindrance to me—remember it not. Set down his name, the + Reverend James Thorley, on the list of those whom I wish to be kept always + in your tender memory, as those whom I sincerely honoured, and who have + been most kind to me of all my friends. + </p> + <p> + The old man spoke with great hesitation, and when I thanked him for + coming, replied in the manner which I had many a time heard him use in + convict cells:— + </p> + <p> + “I came, sir,' because I felt it to be my duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Thorley, whatever was your motive, I respect it, and thank you.” + </p> + <p> + And we remained silent—both standing—for he declined my offer + of a chair. Noticing my preparations, he said, with some agitation, “Am I + hindering your plans for departure? Are you afraid of the law?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed relieved; then, after a long examining look at me, quite broke + down. + </p> + <p> + “O Doctor, Doctor, what a terrible thing this is! who would have believed + it of you!” It was very bitter, Theodora. + </p> + <p> + When he saw that I attempted neither answer nor defence, the chaplain + continued sternly:—“I come here, sir, not to pry into your secrets, + but to fulfil my duty as a minister of God; to urge you to make + confession, not unto me, but unto Him whom you have offended, whose eye + you cannot escape, and whose justice sooner or later will bring you to + punishment. But perhaps,” seeing I bore with composure these and many + similar arguments; alas, they were only too familiar! “perhaps I am + labouring under a strange mistake? You do not look guilty, and I could as + soon have believed in my own son's being a criminal, as you. For God's + sake break this reserve, and tell me all.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not possible.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long pause, and then the old man said, sighing:— + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will urge no more. Your sin, whatever it be, rests between you + and the Judge of sinners. You say the law has no hold over you?” + </p> + <p> + “I said I was not afraid of the law.” + </p> + <p> + “Therefore, it must have been a moral, rather than a legal crime, if crime + it was.” And again I had to bear that searching look, so dreadful because + it was so eager and kind. “On my soul, Doctor Urquhart, I believe you to + be entirely innocent.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” I cried out, and stopped; then asked him “if he did not believe it + possible for a man to have sinned and yet repented?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Thorley started back—so greatly shocked that I perceived at once + what an implication I had made. But it was too late now; nor, perhaps, + would I have had it otherwise. + </p> + <p> + “As a clergyman—I—I—” He paused. “If a man sin a sin + which is not unto death,—You know the rest. And there is a sin which + is unto death; I do not say that he shall pray for it? But never that we + shall <i>not</i> pray for it.” + </p> + <p> + And falling down on his knees beside me, the old chaplain repeated in a + broken voice:—“<i>Remember not the sins of my youth nor my + transgressions; according to thy mercy, think thou upon me, O Lord, for + thy goodness.</i>' Not ours, which is but filthy rags; for <i>Thy</i> + goodness, through Jesus Christ, O Lord.” + </p> + <p> + “Amen.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Thorley rose, took the chair I gave him, and we sat silent. Presently + he asked me if I had any plans? Had I considered what exceeding difficulty + I should find in establishing myself anywhere professionally, after what + had happened this day? + </p> + <p> + I said, I was fully aware that, so far as my future prospects were + concerned, I was a ruined man. + </p> + <p> + “And yet you take it so calmly?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay.” + </p> + <p> + “Doctor,” said he, after again watching me, “you must either be innocent, + or your error must have been caused by strong temptation, and long ago + retrieved. I will never believe but that you are now as honourable and + worthy a man as any living.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + An uncontrollable weakness came over me; Mr. Thorley, too, was much + affected. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you what it is, my dear fellow,” said he, as he wrung my hand, + “you must start afresh in some other part of the world. You are no older + than my son-in-law was when he married and went to Canada, in your own + profession too. By the way, I have an idea.” + </p> + <p> + The idea was worthy of this excellent man, and of his behaviour to me. He + explained that his son-in-law, a physician in good practice, wanted a + partner—some one from the old country, if possible. + </p> + <p> + “If you went out, with an introduction from me, he would be sure to like + you, and all might be settled in no time. Besides, you Scotch hang + together so—my son-in-law is a Fife man—and did you not say + you were born or educated at St. Andrews? The very thing!” + </p> + <p> + And he urged me to start by next Saturday's American mail. + </p> + <p> + A sharp straggle went on within my mind. Mr. Thorley evidently thought it + sprang from another cause, and, with much delicacy, gave me to understand + that in the promised introduction, he did not consider there was the + slightest necessity to state more than that I had been an army surgeon, + and was his valued friend; that no reports against me were likely to reach + the far Canadian settlement, whither I should carry both to his son-in-law + and the world at large, a perfectly unknown and unblemished name. + </p> + <p> + If I had ever wavered, this decided me. The hope must go. So I let it go, + in all probability, for ever. + </p> + <p> + Was I right? I can hear you say, “Yes, Max.” + </p> + <p> + In bidding the chaplain farewell, I tried to explain to him, that in this + generous offer he had given to me more than he guessed—faith not + only in heaven, but in mankind, and strength to do without shrinking what + I am bound to do—trusting that there are other good Christians in + this world besides himself who dare believe that a man may sin and yet + repent—that the stigma even of an absolute crime is not hopeless, + nor eternal. + </p> + <p> + His own opinion concerning my present conduct, or the facts of my past + history, I did not seek; it was of little moment; he will shortly learn + all. + </p> + <p> + My love, I have resolved, as the only thing possible to my future peace, + the one thing exacted by the laws of God and man—to do what I ought + to have done twenty years ago—to deliver myself up to justice. + </p> + <p> + Now I have told you; but I cannot tell you the infinite calm which this + resolution has brought to me. To be free; to lay down this living load of + lies, which has hung about me for twenty years; to speak the whole truth + before God and man—confess all, and take my punishment—my + love, my love, if you knew what the thought of this is to me, you would + neither tremble nor weep, but rather rejoice! + </p> + <p> + My Theodora, I take you in my arms, I hold you to my heart, and love you + with a love that is dearer than life and stronger than-death, and I ask + you to let me do this. + </p> + <p> + In the enclosed letter to your father, I have, after relating all the + circumstances of which I here inform you, implored him to release me from + a pledge which I ought never to have given. Never, for it was putting the + fear of man before the fear of God: it was binding myself to an eternal + hypocrisy, an inward gnawing of shame, which paralyzed my very soul. I + must escape it; you must try to release me from it,—my love, who + loves me better than herself, better than myself, I mean this poor + worthless self, battered and old, which I have often thought was more fit + to go down into the grave than live to be my dear girl's husband. Forgive + me if I wound you. By the intolerable agony of this hour, I feel that the + sacrifice is just and right. + </p> + <p> + You must help me, you must urge your father to set me free. Tell him—indeed + I have told him—that he need dread no disgrace to the family, or to + him who is no more. I shall state nothing of Henry Johnston excepting his + name, and my own confession will be sufficient and sole evidence against + me. + </p> + <p> + As to the possible result of my trial, I have not overlooked it. It was + just, if only for my dear love's sake, that I should gain some idea of the + chances against me. Little as I understand of the law, and especially + English law, it seems to me very unlikely that the verdict will be wilful + murder, nor shall I plead, guilty to that. God and my own conscience are + witness that I did <i>not</i> commit murder, but unpremeditated + manslaughter. + </p> + <p> + The punishment for this is, I believe, sometimes transportation, sometimes + imprisonment for a long term of years. If it were death—which + perhaps it might as well be to a man of my age, I must face it. The + remainder of my days, be they few or many, must be spent in peace. + </p> + <p> + If I do not hear within two days' post from Rockmount, I shall conclude + your father makes no opposition to my determination, and go at once to + surrender myself at Salisbury. <i>You</i> need not write; it might + compromise you; it would be almost a relief to me to hear nothing of or + from you, until all was over. + </p> + <p> + And now farewell. My personal effects here I leave in charge of the + chaplain, with a sealed envelope, containing the name and address of the + friend to whom they are to be sent in case of my death, or any other + emergency. This is yourself. In my will, I have given you, as near as the + law allows, every right that you would have had, as my wife. + </p> + <p> + My wife—my wife in the sight of God, farewell! That is, until such + time as I dare write again. Take good care of yourself—be patient + and have hope. In whatever he commands—he is too just a man to + command an injustice—obey your father. + </p> + <p> + Forget me not—but you never will. If I could have seen you once + more, have felt you close to my heart—but perhaps it is better as it + is. + </p> + <p> + Only a week's suspense for you, and it will be over. Let us trust in God; + and farewell! Remember how I loved you, my child! + </p> + <p> + Max Urquhart. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. HIS STORY. + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y dear Theodora,— + </p> + <p> + By this time you will have known all.—Thank God, it is over. My + dear, dear love—my own faithful girl—it is over! + </p> + <p> + When I was brought back to prison tonight, I found your letters; but I had + heard of you the day before, from Colin Granton. Do not regret the chance + which made Mr. Johnston detain my letter to you, instead of forwarding it + at once to the Cedars. These sort of things never seem to me as + accidental; all was for good. In any case, I could not have done otherwise + than I did; but it would have been painful to have done it in direct + opposition to your father. The only thing I regret is, that my poor child + should have had the shock of first seeing these hard tidings of my + surrender to the magistrate, and my public confession, in a newspaper. + </p> + <p> + Granton told me how you bore it. Tell him, I shall remember gratefully all + my life, his goodness to you, and his leaving his young wife—(whom + he dearly loves, I can see) to come to me, here. Nor was he my only + friend; do not think I was either contemned or forsaken. Sir William + Treherne and several others offered any amount of, bail for me; but it was + better I should remain in prison, during the few days between my committal + and the assizes. I needed quiet and solitude. + </p> + <p> + Therefore, my love, I dared not have seen you, even had you immediately + come to me. You have acted in all things as my dear girl was sure to act, + wise, thoughtful, self-controlled, and oh! how infinitely loving. + </p> + <p> + I had to stop here for want of daylight—but they have now brought me + my allowance of candle—slender enough, so I must make haste. + </p> + <p> + I wish you to have this full account as soon as possible after the brief + telegram which I know Mr. Granton sent you, the instant my trial was over. + A trial, however, it was not—in my ignorance of law, I imagined much + that never happened. What did happen, I will here set down. + </p> + <p> + You must not expect me to give many details; my head was rather confused, + and my health has been a good deal shaken, though do not take heed of + anything Granton may tell you about me or my looks. I shall recover now. + </p> + <p> + Fortunately, the four days of imprisonment gave me time to recover myself + in a measure, and I was able to write out the statement I meant to read at + my trial. I preferred reading it, lest any physical weakness might make me + confused or inaccurate. You see I took all rational precautions for my own + safety. I was as just to myself as I would have been to another man. This + for your sake, and also for the sake of those now dead, upon whose fair + name I have brought the first blot. + </p> + <p> + But I must not think of that—it is too late. What best becomes me is + humility, and gratitude to God and man. Had I known in my wretched youth, + when, absorbed in terror of human justice, I forgot justice divine, had I + but known there were so many merciful hearts in this world! + </p> + <p> + After Colin Granton left me last night, I slept quietly, for I felt quiet + and at rest. O the peace of an unburdened conscience, the freedom of a + soul at ease—which, the whole truth being told, has no longer + anything to dread, and is prepared for everything! + </p> + <p> + I rose calm and refreshed, and could see through my cell-window that it + was a lovely spring morning. I was glad my Theodora did not know what + particular day of the assizes was fixed for my trial. It would make things + a little easier for her. + </p> + <p> + It was noon before the case came on: a long time to wait. + </p> + <p> + Do not suppose me braver than I was. When I found myself standing in the + prisoner's dock, the whole mass of staring faces seemed to whirl round and + round before my eyes; I felt sick and cold; I had lost more strength than + I thought. Everything present melted away into a sort of dream through + which I fancied I heard you speaking, but could not distinguish any words; + except these, the soft, still tenderness of which haunted me as freshly as + if they had been only just uttered: “My dear Max! my dear Max!” + </p> + <p> + By this I perceived that my mind was wandering, and must be recalled; so I + forced myself to look round at the judge, jury, witness-box—in the + which was one person sitting with his white head resting on his hand. I + felt who it was. + </p> + <p> + Did you know your father was subpoenaed here? If so, what a day this must + have been for my poor child! Think not, though, that the sight of him + added to my suffering. I had no fear of him or of anything now. Even + public shame was less terrible than I thought; those scores of inquisitive + eyes hardly stabbed so deep as in days past did many a kind look of your + father's, many a loving glance of yours. + </p> + <p> + The formalities of the court began, but I scarcely listened to them. They + seemed to me of little consequence. As I said to Granton when he urged me + to employ counsel, a man who only wants to speak the truth can surely + manage to do it, in spite of the incumbrances of the law. + </p> + <p> + It came to an end—the long, unintelligible indictment—and my + first clear perception of my position was the judge's question:— + </p> + <p> + “How say you, prisoner at the bar, guilty, or not guilty?” + </p> + <p> + I pleaded “guilty,” as a matter of course. The judge asked several + questions, and held a long discussion with the counsel for the crown, on + what he termed “this very remarkable case,” the purport of it was, I + believe, to ascertain my sanity; and whether any corroboration of my + confession could be obtained. It could not. All possible witnesses were + long since dead, except your father. + </p> + <p> + He still kept his position, neither turning towards me, nor yet from me,—neither + compassionate nor revengeful, but sternly composed; as if his long sorrows + had obtained their solemn satisfaction, and even though the end was thus, + he felt relieved that it had come. As if he, like me, had learned to + submit that our course should be shaped for us rather than by us; being + taught that even in this world's events, the God of Truth will be + justified before men; will prove that: those who, under any pretence, + disguise or deny the truth, live not unto Him, but unto the father of + lies. + </p> + <p> + Is it not strange, that then and there I should have been calm enough to + think of these things. Ay, and should calmly write of them now. But as I + have told you, in a great crisis my mind always recovers its balance and + becomes quiet. Besides, sickness makes us both clear-sighted and + far-sighted; wonderfully so, sometimes. + </p> + <p> + Do not suppose from this admission, that my health is gone or going; but, + simply that I am, as I see in the looking-glass, a somewhat older and + feebler man than my dear love remembers me a year ago. But I must hasten + on. + </p> + <p> + The plea of guilty being recorded, no trial was necessary; the judge had + only to pass sentence. I was asked whether, by counsel or otherwise, I + wished to say anything in my own defence? And then I rose and told the + whole truth. + </p> + <p> + Do not grieve for me, Theodora? The truth is never really terrible. What + makes it so is the fear of man, and that was over with me; the torment of + guilty shame, and that was gone too. I have had many a moment of far + sharper anguish, more grinding humiliation than this, when I stood up and + publicly confessed the sin of my youth, with the years of suffering which + had followed—dare I say expiated it? + </p> + <p> + There is a sense in which no sin ever can be expiated, except in One + Blessed Way;—yet, in so far as man can atone to man, I believed I + had atoned for mine; I had tried to give a life for a life, morally + speaking; nay, I had given it. But it was not enough; it could not he. + Nothing less than the truth was required from me—and I here offered + it. Thus, in one short half hour, the burthen of a lifetime was laid down + for ever. + </p> + <p> + The judge—he was not unmoved,-so they told me afterwards—said + he must take time to consider the sentence. Had the prisoner any witnesses + as to character? + </p> + <p> + Several came forward. Among the rest, the good old chaplain, who had + travelled all night from Liverpool, in order, he said, just to shake hands + with me to-day—which he did, in open court—God bless him! + </p> + <p> + There was also Colonel Turton; with Colin Granton—who had never left + me since daylight this morning—but they all held back when they saw + rise and come forward, as if with the intention of being sworn, your + father. + </p> + <p> + Have no fear my love, for his health. I watched him closely all this day. + He bore it well—it will have no ill result I feel sure. From my + observation of him, I should say that a great and salutary change had come + over him, both body and mind, and that he is as likely to enjoy a green + old age as any one I know. + </p> + <p> + When he spoke, his voice was as steady and clear as before his accident it + used to be in the pulpit. + </p> + <p> + “My lords and gentlemen, I was subpoenaed to this trial. Not being called + upon to give evidence, I wish to make a statement upon oath.” + </p> + <p> + There must have been a “sensation in the court,” as newspapers say, for I + saw Granton look anxiously at me. But I had no fears. Your father, + whatever he had to say, was sure to speak the truth, not a syllable more + or less, and the truth was all I wanted. + </p> + <p> + The judge here interfered, observing that there being no trial, he could + receive no legal evidence against the prisoner. + </p> + <p> + “Nor have I any such evidence to give: I wish only for justice. My lord, + may I speak?” + </p> + <p> + Assent was given. + </p> + <p> + Your father's words were brief and formal; but you will imagine how they + fell on one ear at least. + </p> + <p> + “My name is William Henry Johnston, clerk, of Rockmount, Surrey. Henry + Johnston, who—died—on the night of November 19th, 1836, was my + only son. I know the prisoner at the bar. I knew him for some time before + he was aware whose father I was, or I had any suspicion that my son came + to his death in any other way than by accident.” + </p> + <p> + “Was your first discovery of these painful facts by the prisoner's present + confession?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lord.” Your father hesitated, but only momentarily. “He told me + the whole story, himself, a year ago, under circumstances that would have + induced most men to conceal it for ever.” + </p> + <p> + The judge inquired why was not this confession made public at once? + </p> + <p> + “Because I was afraid. I did not wish to make my family history a by-word + and a scandal. I exacted a promise that the secret should be kept + inviolate. This promise he has broken—but I blame him not. It ought + never to have been made.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. It was thwarting the purposes of justice and of the law.” + </p> + <p> + “My lord, I am an old man, and a clergyman; I know nothing about the law; + but I know it was a wrong act to bind any man's conscience to live a + perpetual lie.” + </p> + <p> + Your father was here asked if he had any thing more to say? + </p> + <p> + “A word only. In the prisoner's confession, he has, out of delicacy to me, + omitted three facts, which weigh materially in extenuation of his crime. + When he committed it he was only nineteen, and my son was thirty. He was + drunk, and my son, who led an irregular life, had made him so, and + afterwards taunted him, more than a youth of nineteen was likely to bear. + Such was his statement to me, and knowing his character and my son's, I + have little doubt of its perfect accuracy.” + </p> + <p> + The judge looked up for his notes. “You seem, sir, strange to say, to be + not unfavourable towards the prisoner.” + </p> + <p> + “I am just towards the prisoner. I wish to be, even though he has on his + hands the blood of my only son.” + </p> + <p> + After the pause which followed, the judge said:— + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Johnston:—the Court respects your feelings, and regrets to + detain you longer or put you to any additional pain. But it may materially + aid the decision of this very peculiar case, if you will answer another + question. You are aware that, all other evidence being wanting, the + prisoner can only be judged by his own confession. Do you believe, on your + oath, that this confession is true?” + </p> + <p> + “I do. I am bound to say from my intimate knowledge of the prisoner, that + I believe him to be now, whatever he may have been in his youth, a man of + sterling honour and unblemished life; one who would not tell a lie to save + himself from the scaffold.” + </p> + <p> + “The Court is satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + But before he sat down, your father turned, and, for the first time that + day, he and I were face to face. + </p> + <p> + “I am a clergyman, as I said, and I never was in a court of justice + before. Is it illegal for me to address a few words to the prisoner?” + </p> + <p> + Whether it was or not, nobody interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Urquhart,” he said, speaking loud enough for every one to hear, + “what your sentence may be I know not, or whether you and I shall ever + meet again until the day of judgment. If not, I believe that if we are to + be forgiven our debts according as we forgive our debtors, I shall have to + forgive you then. I prefer to do it now, while we are in the flesh, and it + may comfort your soul. I, Henry Johnston's father, declare publicly that I + believe what you did was done in the heat of youth, and has ever since + been bitterly repented of. May God pardon you, even as I do this day.” + </p> + <p> + I did not see your father afterwards. He quitted the court directly after + sentence was given—three months' imprisonment—the judge making + a long speech previously; but I heard not a syllable. I heard nothing but + your father's words—saw no one except himself, sitting there below + me, with his hands crossed on his stick, and a stream of sunshine falling + across his white hairs—Theodora—Theodora—I cannot write—it + is impossible. + </p> + <p> + Granton got admission to me for a minute, after I was taken back to + prison. He told me that the “hard labour” was remitted, that there had + been application made for commutation of the three months into one, but + the judge declined. If I wished, a new application should be made to the + Home Secretary. + </p> + <p> + No, my love, suffer him not to do it. Let nothing more be done. I had + rather abide my full term of punishment. It is only too easy. + </p> + <p> + Do not grieve for me. Trust me, my child, many a peer puts on his robes + with a heavier heart than I put on this felon's dress, which shocked + Granton so much that he is sure to tell you of it. Never mind it—my + clothes are not me, are they, little lady? Who was the man that wrote:— + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + “Stone walls do not a prison make, + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + Nor iron bars a cage, + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + Minds innocent—” + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + Am I innocent? No, but I am forgiven, as I believe, before God and man. + And are not all the glories of heaven preparing, not for sinless but for + pardoned souls? + </p> + <p> + Therefore, I am at peace. This first night of my imprisonment is, for some + things, as happy to me as that which I have often imagined to myself, when + I should bring you home for the first time to my own fireside. + </p> + <p> + Not even that thought, and the rush of thoughts that came with it, are + able to shake me out of this feeling of unutterable rest: so perfect that + it seems strange to imagine I shall ever go out of this cell to begin + afresh the turmoil of the world—as strange as that the dead should + wish to return again to life and its cares. But this as God wills. + </p> + <p> + My love, good night. Granton will give you any further particulars. Talk + to him freely—it will be his good heart's best reward. His happy, + busy life, which is now begun, may have been made all the brighter for the + momentary cloud which taught him that Providence oftentimes blesses us in + better ways than by giving us exactly the thing we desired. He told me + when we parted, which was the only allusion he made to the past—that + though Mrs. Colin was “the dearest little woman in all the world,” he + should always adore as “something between a saint and an angel,” Miss + Dora. + </p> + <p> + Is she my saint and angel? Perhaps—if she were not likewise the + woman of my love. + </p> + <p> + What is she doing now, I wonder? Probably vanishing, lamp in hand, as I + have often watched her, up the stair into her own wee room—where she + shuts the door and remembers me. + </p> + <p> + Yes, remember me—but not with pain. Believe that I am happy—that + whatever now befalls me, I shall always be happy. + </p> + <p> + Tell your father—No, tell him nothing. He surely knows all. Or he + will know it—when, this life having passed away like a vapour, he + and I stand together before the One God—who is also the Redeemer of + sinners. + </p> + <p> + Write to me, but do not come and see me. Hitherto, your name has been kept + clear out of everything; it must be still, at any sacrifice to both of us. + I count on this from you. You know, you once said, laughing, you had + already taken in your heart the marriage vow of “obedience,” if I chose to + exact it. + </p> + <p> + I never did, but I do now. Unless I send for you—which I solemnly + promise to do if illness or any other cause makes it necessary—obey + me, your husband: do not come and see me. + </p> + <p> + Three months will pass quickly. Then? But let us not look forward. + </p> + <p> + My love, good-night. + </p> + <p> + Max Urquhart. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. HER STORY. + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>ax says I am to + write an end to my journal, tie it up with his letters and mine, fasten a + stone to it, and drop it over the ship's bulwarks into this blue, blue + sea.—That is, either he threatened me or I him—I forget which, + with such a solemn termination; but I doubt if we shall ever have courage + to do it. It would feel something like dropping a little child into this + “wild and wandering grave,” as a poor mother on board had to do yesterday. + </p> + <p> + “But I shall see him again,” she sobbed, as I was helping her to sew the + little white body up in its hammock. “The good God will take care of him + and let me find him again, even out of the deep sea. I cannot lose him; I + loved him so.” + </p> + <p> + And thus, I believe, no perfect love, or the record of it, in heart or in + word, can ever be lost. So it is of small matter to Max and me, whether + this, our true love's history, sinks down into the bottom of the ocean; to + sleep there—as we almost expected we should do yesterday, there was + such a storm; or is sealed up and preserved for the benefit of—of + our great-grandchildren. + </p> + <p> + Ah! that poor mother and her dead child! + </p> + <p> + —Max here crept down into the berth to look for me—and I + returned with him and left him resting comfortably on the quarter-deck, + promising not to stir for a whole hour. I have to take care of him still; + but, as I told him, the sea winds are bringing; some of its natural + brownness back to his dear old face:—and I shall not consider him + “interesting” any more. + </p> + <p> + During the three months that Max was in prison, I never saw him. Indeed, + we never once met from the day we said good-bye in my father's presence, + till the day that——But I will continue my story + systematically. + </p> + <p> + All those three months Max was ill; not dangerously—for he said so, + and I could believe him. It would have gone very hard with me if I could + not have relied on him in this, as in everything. Nevertheless, it was a + bitter time, and now I almost wonder how I bore it. Now, when I am ready + and willing for everything, except the one thing, which, thank God, I + shall never have to bear again—separation. + </p> + <p> + The day before he came out of prison, Max wrote to me a long and serious + letter. Hitherto, both our letters had been filled up with trivialities, + such as might amuse him and cheer me, we deferred all plans till he was + better. My private thoughts, if I had any, were not clear even to myself, + until Max's letter. + </p> + <p> + It was a very sad letter. Three months' confinement in one cell, with one + hour's daily walk round a circle in a walled yard—prisoner's labour, + for he took to making mats, saying it amused him; prisoner's rules and + fare—no wonder that towards the end even his brave heart gave way. + </p> + <p> + He broke down utterly. Otherwise he never would have written to me as he + did—bidding me farewell, <i>me!</i> At first I was startled and + shocked; then I laid down the letter and smiled—a very sad sort of + smile of course, but still it was a smile. The idea that Max and I could + part, or desire to do so, under any human circumstances, seemed one of + those amusingly impossible things that one would never stop to argue in + the least, either with one's self or any other person. That we loved one + another, and therefore some day should probably be married, but that + anyhow we belonged to one another till death, were facts at once as + simple, natural, and immutable, as that the sun stood in the heavens or + that the grass was green. + </p> + <p> + I wrote back to Max that night. + </p> + <p> + Not that I did it in any hurry, or impulse of sudden feeling. I took many + hours to consider both what I should say, and in what form I should put + it. Also, I had doubts whether it would not be best for him, if he + accepted the generous offer of Mr. Thorley's son-in-law, made with full + knowledge of all circumstances, to go first to America alone. But, think + how I would, my thoughts all returned and settled in the same track, in + which was written one clear truth; that after God and the right—which + means all claims of justice and conscience—the first duty of any two + who love truly is towards one another. + </p> + <p> + I have thought since, that if this truth were plainer seen and more firmly + held, by those whom it concerns—many false notions about honour, + pride, self-respect, would slip off; many uneasy doubts and divided duties + would be set at rest; there would be less fear of the world and more of + God, the only righteous fear. People would believe more simply in His + ordinance, instituted “from the beginning”—not the mere outward + ceremony of a wedding; but the love which draws together man and woman, + until it makes them complete in one another, in the mystical marriage + union, which, once perfect, should never he disannulled. And if this union + begins, as I think it does, from the very hour each feels certain of the + other's love—surely, as I said to Max—to talk about giving one + another up, whether from poverty, delay, altered circumstances, or + compulsion of friends, anything in short except changed love, or lost + honour—like poor Penelope and Francis—was about as foolish and + wrong as attempting to annul a marriage. Indeed, I have seen many a + marriage that might have been broken with far less unholiness than a real + troth plight, such as was this of ours. + </p> + <p> + After a little more “preaching,” (a bad habit that I fear is growing upon + me, save that Max merely laughs at it, or when he does not laugh he + actually listens!) I ended my letter by the-earnest advice, that he should + go and settle in Canada, and go at once; but that he must remember he had + to take with him one trifling incumbrance—me. + </p> + <p> + When the words were written, the deed done, I was a little startled at + myself. It looked so exceedingly like my making <i>him</i> an offer of + marriage! But then—good-bye, foolish doubt! good-bye contemptible, + shame! Those few tears that burnt my cheeks after the letter was gone, + were the only tears of the sort that I ever shed—that Max will ever + suffer me to shed. Max loves me! + </p> + <p> + His letter in reply I shall not give—not a line of it. It was only + <i>for me</i>. + </p> + <p> + So that being settled, the next thing to consider was how matters could be + brought about, without delay either. For, with Max's letter, I got one + from his good friend Mrs. Ansdell, at whose house in London he had gone to + lodge. Her son had followed his two sisters—they were a consumptive + family—leaving her a poor old childless widow now. She was very fond + of my dear Max, which made her quick-sighted concerning him, and so she + wrote as she did, delicately, but sufficiently plainly, to me, whom she + said he had told her was, in case of any sudden calamity, to be sent for + as “his dearest friend.” + </p> + <p> + My dear Max! Now, we smile at these sad forebodings; we believe we shall + both live to see a good old age. But if I had known that we should only be + married a year, a month, a week,—if I had been certain he would die + in my arms the very same day—I should still have done exactly what I + did. + </p> + <p> + In one sense, his illness made my path easier. He had need of me, vital, + instant need, and no one else had. Also, he was so weak that even his will + had left him; he could neither reason nor resist. He just wrote, “You are + my conscience; do as you will, only do right.” And then, as Mrs. Ansdell + afterwards told me, he lay for days and days, calm, patient; waiting, he + says, for another angel than Theodora. + </p> + <p> + Well—we smile now, at these days, as I said; thank God, we can + smile; but it would not do to live them over again. + </p> + <p> + Max refused to let me come to see him at Mrs. Ansdell's, until my father + had been informed of all our plans. But papa went on in his daily life, + now so active and cheerful; he did not seem to remember anything + concerning Doctor Urquhart and me. For two whole days did I follow him + about, watching an opportunity, but it never came. The first person who + learnt my secret was Penelope. + </p> + <p> + How many a time, in these strange summers to come, shall I call to mind + that soft English summer night, under the honeysuckle-bush,—Penelope + and I sitting at our work; she talking the while of Lisabel's new hope, + and considering which of us two should best be spared to go and take care + of her in her trial. + </p> + <p> + “Or, indeed, papa might almost be left alone, for a week or two. He would + hardly miss us—he is so well. I should not wonder, if, like + grandfather, whom you don't remember, Dora,—he lived to be ninety + years old.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope he may; I hope he may!” + </p> + <p> + And I burst out sobbing; then, hanging about my sister's neck, I told her + all. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” I cried, for my tongue seemed unloosed, and I was not afraid of + speaking to her, nor even of hurting her—if now she could be hurt by + the personal sorrows that mine recalled to her mind. “Oh, Penelope, don't + you think it would be right? Papa does not want me—nobody wants me. + Or if they did—” + </p> + <p> + I stopped. Penelope said, meditatively:—“A man shall leave his + father and his mother and cleave unto his wife.” + </p> + <p> + “And equally, a woman ought to cleave unto her husband. I mean to ask my + father's consent to my going with Max to Canada.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that's sudden, child.” And by her start of pain I felt how untruly I + had spoken, and how keenly I must have wounded my sister in saying, + “Nobody wanted me” at home. + </p> + <p> + Home, where I lived for nearly twenty-seven years, all of which now seem + such happy years. “God do so unto me and more also,” as the old Hebrews + used to say, if ever I forget Rockmount, my peaceful maiden-home! + </p> + <p> + It looked so pretty that night, with the sunset colouring its old walls, + and its terrace-walk, where papa was walking to and fro, bareheaded, the + rosy light falling like a glory upon his long white hair. To think of him + thus pacing his garden, year after year, each year growing older and + feebler, and I never seeing him, perhaps never hearing from him; either + not coming back at all, or returning after a lapse of years to find + nothing left to me but my father's grave! + </p> + <p> + The conflict was very terrible; nor would Max himself have wished it less. + They who do not love their own flesh and blood, with whom they have lived + ever since they were born, how can they know what any love is? + </p> + <p> + We heard papa call us:—“Come in, you girls! The sun is down, and the + dews are falling.” Penelope put her hand softly on my head. “Hush, child, + hush! Steal into your own room, and quiet yourself. I will go and explain + things to your father.” + </p> + <p> + I was sure she must have done it in the best and gentlest way; Penelope + does everything so wisely and gently now; but when she came to look for + me, I knew, before she said a word, that it had been done in vain. + </p> + <p> + “Dora, you must go yourself and reason with him. But take heed what you + say and what you do. There is hardly a man on this earth for whom it is + worth forsaking a happy home and a good father.” + </p> + <p> + And truly, if I had ever had the least doubt of Max, or of our love for + one another; if I had not felt as it were already married to him, who had + no tie in the whole wide world but me—I never could have nerved + myself to say what I did say to my father. If, in the lightest word, it + was unjust, unloving or undutiful—may God forgive me, for I never + meant it! My heart was breaking almost—but I only wanted to hold + fast to the right, as I saw it, and as, so seeing it, I could not but act. + </p> + <p> + “So, I understand you wish to leave your father?” + </p> + <p> + “Papa!—papa!” + </p> + <p> + “Do not argue the point. I thought that folly was all over now. It must be + over. Be a good girl, and forget it. There!” + </p> + <p> + I suppose I must have turned very white, for I felt him take hold of me, + and press me into a chair beside him. But it would not do to let my + strength go. + </p> + <p> + “Papa, I want your consent to my marriage with Dr. Urquhart. He would come + and ask you himself; but he is too ill. We have waited a long time, and + suffered much. He is not young, and I feel old—quite old myself, + sometimes. Do not part us any more.” + </p> + <p> + This was, as near as I can recollect, what I said—said very quietly + and humbly, I know it was; for my father seemed neither surprised nor + angry; but he sat there as hard as a stone, repeating only, “It <i>must</i> + be over.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + He answered by one word:—“<i>Harry</i>” + </p> + <p> + “No other reason?” + </p> + <p> + “None.” + </p> + <p> + Then I dared to speak out plain, even to my father. “Papa, you said, + publicly, you had forgiven him for the death of Harry.” + </p> + <p> + “But I never said I should forget.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, there it is!” I cried out bitterly. “People say they forgive, but + they cannot forget. It would go hard with some of us if the just God dealt + with us in like manner.” + </p> + <p> + “You are profane.” + </p> + <p> + “No! only I am not afraid to bring God's truth into all the circumstances + of life, and to judge them by it. I believe,—if Christ came into the + world to forgive sinners, we ought to forgive them too.” + </p> + <p> + Thus far I said—not thinking it just towards Max that I should plead + merely for pity to be shewn to him or to me who loved him; but because it + was the right and the truth, and as such, both for Max's honour and mine, + I strove to put it clearly before my father. And then I gave way, pleading + only as a daughter with her father, that he should blot out the past, and + not for the sake of one long dead and gone break the heart of his living + child. + </p> + <p> + “Harry would not wish it—I am sure he would not. If Harry has gone + where he, too, may find mercy for his many sins, I know that he has long + ago forgiven my dear Max.” My father, muttering something about “strange + theology,” sat thoughtful. It was some time before he spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “There is one point of the subject you omit entirely. What will the world + say? I, a clergyman, to sanction the marriage of my daughter with the man + who took the life of my son? It is not possible.” + </p> + <p> + Then I grew bold:—“So, it is not the law of God, or justice, or + nature, that keeps us asunder—but the world? Father, you have no + right to part Max and me for fear of the world.” + </p> + <p> + When it was said, I repented myself of this. But it was too late. All his + former hardness returned as he said:— + </p> + <p> + “I am aware that I have no legal right to forbid your marriage. You are of + age: you may act, as you have all along acted, in defiance of your + father.” + </p> + <p> + Never in defiance, nor even in secret disobedience and I reminded him how + all things had been carried on—open and plain—from first to + last; how patiently we had waited, and how, if Max were well and + prosperous, I might still have said, “We will wait a little longer. Now—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, and now?” + </p> + <p> + I went down on my very knees, and with tears and sobs besought my father + to let me be Max's wife. + </p> + <p> + It was in vain. + </p> + <p> + “Good night: go to your bed, Dora, and weary me no more.” + </p> + <p> + I rose, certain now that the time was come when I must choose between two + duties—between father and husband; the one to whom I owed existence, + the other to whose influence I owed everything that had made me a girl + worth living, or worth loving. Such crises do come to poor souls!—God + guide them, for He only can. + </p> + <p> + “Good night, father”—my lips felt dry and stiff—it was + scarcely my own voice that I heard, “I will wait—there are still a + few days.” + </p> + <p> + He turned suddenly upon me. “What are you planning? Tell the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “I meant to do so.” And then, briefly,—for each word came out with + pain, as if it were a last breath,—I explained that Dr. Urquhart + would have to leave for Canada in a month—that, if we had gained my + father's consent, we intended to be married in three weeks, remain a week + in England, and then sail. + </p> + <p> + “And what if I do not give my consent?” + </p> + <p> + I stopped a moment, and then strength came. + </p> + <p> + “I must be Max's wife still. God gave us to one another, and God only + shall put us asunder.” + </p> + <p> + After that, I remember nothing till I found myself lying in my own bed + with Penelope beside me. + </p> + <p> + No words can tell how good my sister Penelope was to me in the three weeks + that followed. She helped me in all my marriage preparations; few and + small, for I had little or no money except what I might have asked papa + for, and I would not have done that—not for worlds! Max's wife would + have come to him almost as poor as Griseldis, had not Penelope one day + taken me to those locked-up drawers of hers. + </p> + <p> + “Are you afraid of ill-luck with these things? No? Then choose whatever + you want, and may you have health and happiness to wear them, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + And so—with a little more stitching—for I had a sort of + superstition that I should like to be married in one new white gown, which + my sister and I made between us—we finished and packed the small + wardrobe which was all the marriage portion poor Theodora Johnston could + bring to her husband. + </p> + <p> + My father must have been well aware of our preparations, for we did not + attempt to hide them; the household knew only that Miss Dora, was “going a + journey,” but he knew better—that she was going to leave him and her + old home, perhaps for evermore. Yet he said nothing. Sometimes I caught + him looking earnestly at me—at the poor face which I saw in the + looking-glass—growing daily more white and heavy-eyed—yet he + said nothing. + </p> + <p> + Penelope told me when, hearing me fall, she had run into the library that + night, he bade her “take the child away, and say she must not speak to him + on this subject any more.” I obeyed. I behaved all through those three + weeks as if each day had been like the innumerable other days that I had + sat at my father's table, walked and talked by his side, if not the best + loved, at least as well loved as any of his daughters. But it was an + ordeal such as even to remember gives one a shiver of pain, wondering how + one bore it. + </p> + <p> + During the day-time I was quiet enough, being so busy, and, as I said, + Penelope was very good to me; but at night I used to lie awake, seeing, + with open eyes, strange figures about the room—especially my mother, + or some one I fancied was she. I would often talk to her, asking her if I + were acting right or wrong, and whether all that I did for Max she would + not have once done for my father? then rouse myself with a start, and a + dread that my wits were going, or that some heavy illness was approaching + me, and if so, what would become of Max? + </p> + <p> + At length arrived the last day—the day before my marriage. It was + not to be here, of course; but in some London church, near Mrs. Ansdell's, + who was to meet me herself at the railway-station early the same morning, + and remain with me till I was Dr. Urquhart's wife. I could have no other + friend; Penelope and I agreed that it was best not to risk my father's + displeasure by asking for her to go to my marriage. So, without sister or + father, or any of my own kin, I was to start on my sad wedding-morning—quite + alone. + </p> + <p> + During the week, I had taken an opportunity to drive over to the Cedars, + shake hands with Colin and his wife, and give his dear old mother one long + kiss, which she did not know was a good-bye. Otherwise I bade farewell to + no one. My last walk through the village was amidst a deluge of August + rain, in which my moorlands vanished, all mist and gloom. A heavy, heavy + night: it will be long before the weight of it is lifted off my + remembrance. + </p> + <p> + And yet I knew I was doing right, and, if needed, would do it all over + again. Every human love has its sacrifices and its anguishes, as well as + its joys—the one great love of life has often most of all. + Therefore, let those beware who enter upon it lightly, or selfishly, or + without having counted its full cost. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know if we shall be happy,” said I to Penelope, when she was + cheering me with a future that may never come—“I only know that Max + and I have cast our lots together, and that we shall love one another to + the end.” + </p> + <p> + And in that strong love armed, I lived—otherwise, many times that + day, it would have seemed easier to have died. + </p> + <p> + When I went, as usual, to bid papa goodnight, I could hardly stand. He + looked at me suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + “Good night, my dear. By-the-by, Dora, I shall want you to drive me to the + Cedars tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I—Penelope will do it.” And I fell on his breast with a + pitiful cry. “Only bid me good-bye! Only say 'God bless you,' just once, + father.” + </p> + <p> + He breathed hard. “I thought so. Is it to be to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + I told him. + </p> + <p> + For a few minutes papa let me lie where I was; patting my shoulder softly, + as one does a sobbing child—then, still gently, he put me away from + him. + </p> + <p> + “We had better end this, Dora; I cannot bear it. Kiss me. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “And not one blessing? Papa, papa!” + </p> + <p> + My father rose, and laid his hand solemnly on my head:—“You have + been a dutiful girl to me, in all things save this, and a good daughter + makes a good wife. Farewell—wherever you go,—God bless you!” + </p> + <p> + And as he closed the library-door upon me I thought I had taken my last + look of my dear father. + </p> + <p> + It was only six o'clock in the morning when Penelope took me to the + station. Nobody saw us—nobody knew. The man at the railway stopped + us, and talked to Penelope for full two minutes about his wife's illness—two + whole minutes out of our last five. + </p> + <p> + —My sister would not bid me good-bye—being determined, she + said, to see me again, either in London or Liverpool, before we sailed. + She had kept me up wonderfully, and her last kiss was almost cheerful, or + she made it seem so. I can still see her—very pale, for she had been + up since daylight, but otherwise quiet and tearless, pacing the solitary + platform—our two long shadows gliding together before us, in the + early morning sun. And I see her, even to the last minute, standing with + her hand on the carriage-door—smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Give Doctor Urquhart my love—tell him, I know he will take care of + you. And child”—turning round once again with her “practical” look + that I knew so well, “Remember, I have written 'Miss Johnston,' on your + boxes. Afterwards, be sure that you alter the name. Good-bye,—nonsense, + it is not really goodbye.” + </p> + <p> + Ay, but it was. For how many, many years? + </p> + <p> + In that dark, gloomy, London church, which a thundery mist made darker and + stiller—I first saw again my dear Max. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Ansdell said, lest I should be startled and shocked, that it was only + the sight of me which overcame him; that he was really better. And so + when, after the first few minutes, he asked me, hesitatingly, “if I did + not find him much altered?” I answered boldly, “No! that I should soon get + accustomed to his grey hair; besides, I never remembered him either + particularly handsome or particularly young.” At which he smiled—and + then I knew again my own Max! and all things ceased to feel so mournfully + strange. + </p> + <p> + We went into one of the far pews, and Max tried on my ring. How his hands + shook! so much that all my trembling passed away, and a great calm came + over me. Yes—I had done right. He had nobody but me. + </p> + <p> + So we sat, side by side, neither of us speaking a word, until the + pew-opener came to say the clergyman was ready. + </p> + <p> + There were several other couples waiting to be married at the same time—who + had bridesmaids, and friends, and fathers. We three walked up and took our + places—there was no one to pay heed to us. I saw the verger whisper + something to Max—to which he answered “Yes,” and the old man came + and stood behind Mrs. Ansdell and me. A few other folk were dotted about + in the pews, but I only noticed them as moving figures, and distinguished + none. + </p> + <p> + The service began—which I—indeed we both—had last heard + at Lisabel's wedding—in our pretty church, all flower-adorned, she + looking so handsome and happy, with her sisters near her, and her father + to give her away. For a moment I felt very desolate: and hearing a + pew-door open and a footstep come slowly up the aisle, I trembled with a + vague fear that something might happen, something which even at the last + moment might part Max and me. + </p> + <p> + But it did not; I heard him repeat the solemn promises—how dare any + one make them lightly, or break them afterwards! to “<i>love, comfort, + honor and keep me, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all other, + keep me only unto him, so long as we both should live</i>” And I felt that + I also, out of the entire trust I had in him, and the great love I bore + him, could cheerfully forsake all other, father, sisters, kindred, and + friends, for him. They were very dear to me, and would be always: but he + was part of myself,—my husband. + </p> + <p> + And here let me relate a strange thing—so unexpected that Max and I + shall always feel it as a special blessing from heaven to crown all our + pain and send us forth on our new life in peace and joy. When in the + service came the question:—“Who giveth this woman, &c”—there + was no answer, and the silence went like a stab to my heart. The minister, + thinking there was some mistake, repeated it again:—“Who giveth this + woman to be married to this man?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + It was not a stranger's voice, but my dear father's. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + My husband had asked me where I should best like to go for our marriage + journey. I said, to St. Andrews. Max grew much better there. He seemed + better from the very hour, when, papa having remained with us till our + train started, we were for the first time left alone by our two selves. An + expression ungrammatical enough to be quite worthy, Max would say, of his + little lady, but people who are married will understand what it means.—We + did, I think, as we sat still, my head on his shoulder and my hand between + both his, watching the fields, trees, hills, and dales, fly past like + changing shadows; never talking at all, nor thinking much, except—the + glad thought came in spite of all the bitterness of of these good-byes—that + there was one goodbye which never need be said again. We were married. + </p> + <p> + I was delighted with St. Andrews. We shall always talk of our four days + there, so dream-like at the time, yet afterwards become clear in + remembrance down to the minutest particulars. The sweetness of them will + last us through many a working hour, many an hour of care—such as we + know must come, in ours as in all human lives. We are not afraid: we are + together. + </p> + <p> + Our last day in St. Andrews was Sunday, and Max took me to his own + Presbyterian church, in which he and his brother were brought up, and of + which Dallas was to have been a minister. From his many wanderings it so + happened that my husband had not heard the Scotch service for many years, + and he was much affected by it. I too—when, reading together the + psalms at the end of his Bible, he shewed me, silently, the name written + in it—Dallas Urquhart.. + </p> + <p> + The psalm—I shall long remember it, with the tune it was sung to—which + was strange to me, but Max knew it well of old, and it had been a + particular favourite with Dallas. Surely if spirit, freed from flesh, be + everywhere, or, if permitted, can go anywhere that it desires,—not + very far from us two, as we sat singing that Sunday, must have been our + brother Dallas. + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="indent15"> + “How lovely is thy dwelling place + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + O Lord of hosts, to me!— + </p> + <p class="indent15"> + The tabernacles of thy grace + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + How pleasant, Lord, they be! + </p> + <p class="indent15"> + My thirsty soul longs vehemently + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + Yea, faints, thy courts to see: + </p> + <p class="indent15"> + My very heart and flesh cry out + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + O living God, for thee.. . . + </p> + <p class="indent15"> + Blest are they, in thy house who dwell, + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + Who ever give thee praise; + </p> + <p class="indent15"> + Blest is the man whose strength thou art + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + In whose heart are thy ways: + </p> + <p class="indent15"> + Who, passing thorough Baca's vale, + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + Therein do dig up wells: + </p> + <p class="indent15"> + Also the rain that falleth down + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + The pools with water fills. + </p> + <p class="indent15"> + Thus they from strength unwearied go + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + Still forward unto strength: + </p> + <p class="indent15"> + Until in Zion they appear + </p> + <p class="indent20"> + Before the Lord at length. + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + Amen! So, when this life is ended, may we appear, even there still + together,—my husband and I! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Contrary to our plans, we did not see Rockmount again, nor Penelope, nor + my dear father. It was thought best not. Especially as in a few years at + latest, we hope, God willing, to visit them all again, or perhaps even to + settle in England. + </p> + <p> + After a single day spent at Treherne Court, Augustus went with us one + sunshiny morning on board the American steamer, which lay so peacefully in + the middle of the Mersey—just as if she were to lie there for ever, + instead of sailing, and we with her—in one little half hour. Sailing + far away, far away to a home we knew not, leaving the old familiar faces + and the old familiar land. + </p> + <p> + It seemed doubly precious now, and beautiful; even the sandy flats, that + Max had so often told me about, along the Mersey shore. I saw him look + thoughtfully towards them, after pointing out to me the places he knew, + and where his former work had lain. + </p> + <p> + “That is all over now,” he said, half sadly. “Nothing has happened as I + planned, or hoped, or—” + </p> + <p> + “Or feared.” + </p> + <p> + “No. My dear wife, no! Yet all has been for good. All is very good. I + shall find new work in a new country.” + </p> + <p> + “And I too?” + </p> + <p> + Max smiled. “Yes, she too. We'll work together, my little lady!” + </p> + <p> + The half hour was soon over—the few last words soon said. But I did + not at all realize that we were away, till I saw Augustus wave us + good-bye, and heard the sudden boom of our farewell gun as the <i>Europa</i> + slipped off her mail-tender, and went steaming seaward alone—fast, + oh! so fast. + </p> + <p> + The sound of that gun, it must have nearly broken many a heart, many a + time! I think it would have broken mine, had I not, standing, + close-clasped, by my husband's side, looked up in his dear face, and read, + as he in mine, that to us thus together, everywhere was Home. + </p> + <h3> + THE END. + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48483 ***</div> + </body> +</html> |