A VAIN APPEAL.
“POSSIBLY I might do something with him,” said Mr. Golightly to me one
day; “I have not much power of persuasion; but if I put a few simple
truths before him, and showed him the wickedness of his present course,
and how wanton is the injury he has done you, without even the shadow
of good to himself, he might try even now to make amends. I can easily
get an introduction to him. I suppose you would forgive him, if your
dear wife were restored. It would be a noble thing to do.”
“Too noble for me, I greatly fear. But he will never forgive me. If he
hated me, when I had never harmed him, what is he likely to do now?”
As yet I had concealed from this conscientious pastor my recent act of
rudeness, for I could not expect him to look upon it as the discharge
of a Christian duty. But now it seemed better that he should have the
story from me, than from some one who might give an unkind turn to it.
And he sensibly perceived that as the thing was done, it was useless
now to remonstrate.
“It was not a magnanimous act at all,” he replied with a grave shake of
his head; “but allowance must be made for provocation; even Mr. Bulwrag
must feel that, if he has at all a candid mind. I should not let that
discourage me in the least, if you think fit to accept my services; and
after all your kind acts to me and my dear child, it would be a very
happy day for me—one of the happiest of my life, if I could really help
you. Let me try, I entreat you; it can do no harm, and it may do good.”
“You would only expose yourself to rudeness. He is rough and
contemptuous in his manner, and has no respect for any one.”
“His rudeness would not injure me. But I do not think that he would
show any. I am well acquainted with a cousin of the lady whom he seeks
to marry. He was my churchwarden at Knightsbridge, and I became much
attached to him. Mr. Bulwrag, for his own sake, will not be rude to any
one so introduced.”
This of course made a great difference; and as Mr. Golightly pressed
the matter, I consented gratefully, though without seeing even the
smallest chance of any good to come from it. However, it would enable
me to hear something of that scoundrel, after whom I now began to feel
a sort of stupid hankering; such as the young robin has for the cat; or
the mallard on the mere about the strange proceedings of that dog among
the reeds.
A more unpromising embassy might no man ever undertake; and having
still some pride alive, in spite of deadly blows to it, I begged my
reverend, and revered, as well as much beloved friend, to understand,
and to make it understood, that he went as no envoy of mine, but simply
at his own suggestion. “That shall be plain enough,” he said, “he shall
not even know that I asked your leave.”
It must have been a strange and curious thing to see this encounter of
two men, as different as any two men can be, and as far apart as heaven
and hell. Not having been there, I cannot describe it; and I could
not have done so, if I had been present. But from what was told me
afterwards, the result was much as follows.
Donovan Bulwrag received his unknown visitor politely. He offered him a
cigar, but whether in sport or courtesy was not plain, and then he said
with his usual slowness, leaning back in his chair, and thinking—
“Sunbury, I think Sir Gilbert says; Sunbury a pretty village on the
river. I know it a little, but I ought to know it better; for my
mother’s family lived there. And an aunt of mine—Miss Coldpepper—must
be one of your oldest inhabitants. But owing to family circumstances,
we do not see very much of her. How is she? I hope she supports the
Church, as all people of property should do.”
“The Church requires no support”—Mr. Golightly was always annoyed at
the idea of the Church being patronized; “except what she has from
above, Mr. Bulwrag, and from the proper zeal and gratitude of her
dutiful children.”
“To be sure. That is exactly what I meant. I trust that my aunt is a
dutiful child. But I know with sorrow that we do not all value our
privileges, as we should. You find that the case sometimes, I fear.”
“Too often, I regret to say, I do.” Mr. Golightly was always grave with
any one who spoke gravely. “But we do not restrict the opportunities
of doing good to parishioners. We have many useful institutions in our
parish. Perhaps you would like me to mention a few. And if with your
very kind feelings towards the Church, and anxiety about your aunt’s
discharge of Christian duties, you should feel impelled to contribute,
I happen to have the subscription-lists of six of the most meritorious,
all in urgent need of funds; and I carry the receipt-forms in my
pocket.”
Downy was caught in his own net very neatly, and the parson heard him
mutter—“Confound that Sir Gilbert. This is a little too bad of him.”
“Ah, I don’t quite see. I am sure this is most kind of you—but with the
many claims upon my small resources—perhaps it would be better to allow
my mother the benefit of this opportunity.”
“You must not blame Sir Gilbert. I did not come upon a begging errand.
I intrude upon you for quite a different purpose. A sad and most
mysterious thing has happened in our parish.” Mr. Golightly watched
him closely, to note the effect of every word. “A lady newly married
to an excellent young man, of one of our oldest families, suddenly
disappeared last May, and has not since been heard of.”
“You need not tell me that. I know all about it,” Bulwrag replied
without any change of face, but in quite a different tone, and speaking
quickly. “I could not help knowing it, considering that the girl’s
father was my mother’s husband. She married without our knowledge, and
is gone without it. My mother, who has been most kind to her, never met
with such ingratitude.”
“I do not intrude into family matters. I have nothing to do with that
part of the case. I am here simply to discharge my duty. I come by
nobody’s suggestion. Only as the clergyman of the parish I feel myself
bound to do all I can, to restore peace and happiness, and to right a
great wrong.”
“It is very good on your part, and I wish you all success. It would
appear to be rather an affair for the police. I am sorry that I have an
important engagement. Would you like to see my mother on the subject?”
“No, thank you. My business is with you. I will speak plainly, and as
an old man to a young one. All who know of this mysterious affair,
believe that it is of your doing. Hear me out, and without anger, as I
speak. If from some ill-will to either of those two, or for any other
reason of your own, you have contrived to part them, be satisfied now
with what you have done. For many months now, you have caused the
deepest misery, doubt, suspense, and almost despair. You have crushed
two young hearts, which perhaps never will recover. You have desolated
a simple, innocent, and tranquil home. Remember, I beseech you, what is
manly, good, and just. I will not urge religion, because perhaps you
have little sense of it. But even so, you know how short our time is
here, and how paltry it is to injure one another. Even now, if you will
do what is right, I will pledge myself that you shall be forgiven. Your
share in it shall not be published to the world. You will have had more
revenge than the bitterest foe can long for, and you will escape the
penalty.”
The clergyman urged that last point, because he saw whom—or rather what
he had to deal with—a thing that could not be called a man. For during
his description of our misery, he had detected a glow of fiendish
exultation in the crafty eyes he was observing. This proved to him more
clearly than if he had seen the deed, that the guilt lay on that brutal
soul.
“It is a sad loss to us, my dear sir,” replied Bulwrag, looking at him
steadfastly; “that we have not the privilege of living in your parish.
Not only for the sake of the deep interest you feel in the private
affairs of your parishioners, but also because you possess very largely
that extremely rare gift—eloquence. I should be trembling in my shoes,
if I had anything to tremble for. But knowing no more than you do, and
perhaps much less, about this strange affair, I am simply astonished at
your waste of words, and if you were not a clergyman, I should say—your
impertinence.”
“I have never been charged with impertinence before. Even if I am
wrong, there is nothing of that about it. But if I have been mistaken,
I have done you much wrong as a gentleman; and I will beg your pardon,
if you will do this. Take a sheet of paper, and write these words—‘Upon
my honour as a gentleman, I have had nothing whatever to do with the
disappearance of Kitty Orchardson. Signed, Donovan Bulwrag.’”
“It would be easy enough to do. But I do not choose so to degrade
myself. If you think again, you will see that you were wrong, in
proposing a thing so disgraceful. If you will not apologize without
that, I must even put up with your insult. I believe that you are a
good man, Mr. Golightly, and deeply attached to your parish, sir; but
impulsive, and hasty, and illogical. A fault upon the right side, no
doubt; but too hasty, sir, much too hasty. I must beg you to excuse the
same fault in me—for I cannot wait another moment.”
When Mr. Golightly came back, he declared that but for that glow in
Bulwrag’s eyes, he could well have believed in his innocence. For he
had never known any one meet a charge, when conscious of guilt, with
such entire self-possession, and unfaltering readiness. And he feared
that there was no such thing as mercy in his composition.
“He is a foe to be dreaded, Kit,” he continued, looking at me sadly.
“There is nothing, however bad, that he would stick at; he is resolute,
calm, and resourceful. I have met with some men—not very many—in the
course of my work as a clergyman, who seemed to have forgotten and
foregone all the good, all the kind, all the tender part of the nature
which God has given us. St. Paul describes such beings—one can scarcely
call them human; and so from a different point of view does Aristotle.
It is useless to deny that they exist, although one would like to deny
it—people in whom there does not remain one particle of good feeling to
appeal to. Yet according to memoirs of some great Christians they have
been such at one time. I will not deny it, though I have never known an
instance. It is possible that by the power of Grace such an one may be
converted and live, as a brand snatched from the burning; but—”
“But I hope Bulwrag won’t be so at any rate. And I don’t think there is
much fear of it. I hope that he will have his portion—”
“Hush, Kit, hush! I pray you not to imitate him. Why is he as he is,
but from indulging the evil part in early days, and famishing the
better side? But I have brought you some news of your father-in-law,
the learned and good Professor Fairthorn. You have looked in vain, I
think, in that scientific journal, as it seems to be called, which you
took in on purpose. I saw this quite by accident in _The Globe_ as I
came home; and although it cannot help you, I thought you might like to
see it.”
He handed me the paper, and I read as follows, among the short
paragraphs of news received that morning:—
“The steamship _Archytas_, as our readers may remember, proceeded on a
cruise of investigation and deep-sea soundings last April or May, being
fitted out specially for that purpose by a well-known learned society.
Our Government, with its usual penurious system, has left all these
questions of prime importance to our commerce and intercourse with the
world, entirely to private enterprise; and we acknowledge with shame
that we never could have laid a cable across the Atlantic, without the
knowledge for which we are indebted to the broader and more enlightened
policy of the United States. Unhappily these are now involved in an
internecine struggle, which must retard for many years the progress of
civilization; and we think that England owes a debt of gratitude to the
learned association, which has thus stepped in to man the breach by
voluntary efforts. Some uneasiness had been felt concerning the safety
of this gallant band, which is under the charge, as we need not say,
of one of our most distinguished savants, the well-known Professor
Fairthorn; for no tidings of the _Archytas_ and her gallant company had
reached this country for many months. But we are happy to announce,
in advance of our contemporaries, that the exploring ship was spoken,
in latitude and longitude not decipherable on the telegram—for it can
hardly have been 361, and 758, which are the apparent figures—by the
clipper-ship _Simon Pure_, which arrived at Liverpool last night.
The _Simon Pure_ took letters from her, which will be received with
avidity, also instructions that any letters for the members of the
expedition should be addressed to Ascension Island, if posted in Great
Britain before the end of November. We hope to give further particulars
shortly.”
Without loss of a day, I took advantage of this opportunity, but
rather as a matter of duty, than of hope or promise. And as my letter
led to something, I will venture to insert it here, though a very
old-fashioned production.
“MY DEAR AND RESPECTED FATHER-IN-LAW,—You will be
surprised and shocked to hear that shortly after your
departure, your daughter Kitty, my dear wife, left
me apparently of her own accord, without a word of
explanation, or any cause that I can even imagine. We
had lived in perfect happiness and love; no cross word
had ever passed between us; instead of growing tired of
one another, we had become more and more united. I am
well aware that the home I could give her was not such
as she, with all her attractions, might have aspired
to. But she knew that, before she married me; and to
all appearance she was perfectly satisfied, and as
happy and lively as the day is long. And we had every
hope, with kind friends round us, of improving our
condition from year to year. And I say, on the honour
of an Englishman, and on the faith of a Christian, that
never, in thought, word, or deed, had I wronged her, or
been untrue to her. In short, she was all my life in
this world, and I loved her even to infatuation, and
fondly believed that she loved me likewise.
“Yet on the evening of May 15th, 1861, when I returned
to our cottage, at the time arranged, and in full
expectation of finding my dear wife, she was gone
without a single word; and from that day to this,
although I have sought, and others have sought high
and low, not a trace of her can be obtained, except as
mentioned afterwards, and not a line has come from her.
“It is the deepest mystery I have ever heard, or read
of; and when it will end, God only knows. She was much
too sensible, and pure, and loving, to have left me
thus for any trifle, or for the sake of any other man.
Sometimes I fear the very worst,—that she may have met
with some fatal accident, or have been decoyed away and
killed. But who could do that to my innocent Kitty?
Surely not the vilest man ever born. My suspicions rest
very strongly on a person well known to you, Donovan
Bulwrag; but I cannot bring it home to him.
“We believe that we have traced my wife, after a search
of many weeks, to Woking Road Station on the London
and South-Western Line; but there all further clue
vanishes; and we cannot identify, or even guess at the
elderly man, who appears from our inquiries to have
taken her thus far. My uncle Cornelius Orchardson, and
my aunt, Miss Parslow of Leatherhead, have spared no
pains or expense, in helping me in my hopeless search;
but nothing comes of it, and I almost despair.
“I need not ask you, if you know anything which can
throw any light on this horrible puzzle, to write to
me immediately. But my hopes are very faint, because
you were far at sea before it happened; as was proved
by your kind message, received from the captain at
Falmouth, which my dear Kitty read with me, and for
which I beg to thank you.
“With all good wishes for your success in the
important work you are engaged on, and hoping for your
speedy return, I am with all respect and love, your
unfortunate son-in-law,
“KIT ORCHARDSON.”
After finding out how much it would cost, I posted this letter with my
own hands; and the gloomy winter closed upon me, with nothing but its
dreary round of heavy ponderings and lonesome work.