THE CONFESSION.
Now am I come to the last event of this history, and I have to
write down the confession of my own share in that event. For the
others--for Alice and for Robin--the thing must be considered as the
crown and completion of all the mercies. For me--what is it? But you
shall hear. When the secrets of all hearts are laid open, then will
Alice hear it also: what she will then say, or what think, I know
not. It was done for her sake--for her happiness have I laid this
guilt upon my soul. Nay, when the voice of conscience doth exhort me
to repent, and to confess my sin, then there still ariseth within my
soul, as it were, the strain of a joyful hymn, a song of gratitude
that I was enabled to return her to freedom and the arms of the man
she loved. If any learned Doctor of Divinity, or any versed in that
science which the Romanists love (they call it casuistry), should
happen to read this chapter of confession, I pray that they consider
my case, even though it will then be useless as far as I myself am
concerned, seeing that I shall be gone before a Judge who will, I
hope (even though my earthly affections do not suffer me to separate
my sin from the consequences which followed), be more merciful than
I have deserved.
While, then, I stood watching this signal example of God's wrath,
I was plucked gently by the sleeve, and, turning, saw one whose
countenance I knew not. He was dressed as a lawyer, but his gown was
ragged, and his bands yellow; he looked sunk in poverty; and his
face was inflamed with those signs which proclaim aloud the habit of
immoderate drinking.
'Sir,' he said, 'if I mistake not, you are Dr. Humphrey Challis?'
'The same, Sir; at your service,' I replied with some misgivings.
And yet, being one of the Prince's following, there needed none.
'I have seen you, Sir, in the chambers of your cousin, Mr. Benjamin
Boscorel, my brother learned in the law. We drank together, though
(I remember) you still passed the bottle. It is now four or five
years ago. I wonder not that you have forgotten me. We change
quickly, we who are the jolly companions of the bottle; we drink our
noses red, and we paint our cheeks purple; nay, we drink ourselves
out of our last guinea, and out of our very apparel. What then, Sir?
a short life and a merry. Sir, yonder is a sorry sight. The first
Law Officer of the Crown thus to be haled along the streets by a
howling mob. Ought such a thing to be suffered? 'Tis a sad and sorry
sight, I say!'
'Sir,' I replied hotly, 'ought such villains as Judge Jeffreys to be
suffered to live?'
He considered a little, as one who is astonished and desires to
collect his thoughts. Perhaps he had already taken more than a
morning draught.
'I remember now,' he said. 'My memory is not so good as it was. We
drink that away as well. Yes, I remember--I crave your forgiveness,
Doctor. You were yourself engaged with Monmouth. Your cousin told me
as much. Naturally you love not this good Judge, who yet did nothing
but what the King, his master, ordered him to do. I, Sir, have often
had the honour of sitting over a bottle with his Lordship. When his
infirmities allowed (though not yet old, he is grievously afflicted)
he had no equal for a song or a jest, and would drink so long as any
were left to keep him company. Ha! they have knocked him down--now
they will kill him. No; he is again upon his feet; those who protect
him close in. So--they have passed out of our sight. Doctor, shall
we crack a flask together? I have no money, unhappily; but I will
with pleasure drink at your expense.'
I remembered the man's face now, but not his name. 'Twas one of
Ben's boon companions. Well; if hard drinking brings men so speedily
to rags and poverty, even though it be a merry life (which I doubt),
give me moderation.
'Pray, Sir,' I said coldly, 'to have me excused. I am no drinker.'
'Then, Doctor, you will perhaps lend me, until we meet again, a
single guinea?'
I foolishly complied with this request.
'Doctor, I thank you,' he said. 'Will you now come and drink with
me at my expense? Sir, I say plainly, you do not well to refuse
a friendly glass. I could tell you many things, if you would but
drink with me, concerning my Lord Jeffreys. There are things which
would make you laugh. Come, Doctor; I love not to drink alone. Your
cousin, now, was always ready to drink with any man, until he fell
ill'--
'How? is my cousin ill?'
'Assuredly; he is sick unto death. Yesterday I went to visit him,
thinking to drink a glass with him, and perhaps to borrow a guinea
or two, but found him in bed and raving. If you will drink with
me, Doctor, I can tell you many curious things about your cousin.
And now I remember, you were sent to the Plantations; your cousin
told me so. You have returned before your time. Well, the King
hath run away; you are, doubtless, safe. Your cousin hath gotten
his grandfather's estate. Lord Jeffreys, who loved him mightily,
procured that grant for him. When your cousin wakes at night he
swears that he sees his grandfather by his bedside looking at him
reproachfully, so that he drinks the harder; 'tis a merry life. He
hath also married a wife, and she ran away from him at the church
door, and he now cannot hear of her or find her anywhere, so that he
curses her and drinks the harder. Oh! 'tis always the jolliest dog.
They say that he is not the lawyer that he was, and that his clients
are leaving him. All mine have left me long since. Come and drink
with me, Doctor.'
I broke away from the poor toper who had drunk up his wits as well
as his money, and hurried to my cousin's chambers, into which I had
not thought to enter save as one who brings reproaches--a useless
burden.
Benjamin was lying in bed: an old crone sat by the fire, nodding.
Beside her was a bottle, and she was, I found, half drunk. Her I
quickly sent about her business. No one else had been attending him.
Yet he was laid low, as I presently discovered, with that kind of
fever which is bred in the villainous air of our prisons--the same
fever which had carried off his grandfather.
Perhaps, if there were no foul and stinking wards, jails, and
clinks, this kind of fever would be banished altogether, and be
no more seen. So, if we could discover the origin and cause of
all diseases, we might once more restore man to his primitive
condition, which I take to have been one free from any kind of
disease or infirmity, designed at first by his Creator so to live
for ever, and, after the Fall, enabled (when medicine shall be so
far advanced) to die of old age after such prolongation of life and
strength as yet we cannot even understand.
'Cousin,' I said, 'I am sorry to find thee lying in this condition.'
'Ay,' he replied, in a voice weak and low, not like his old
blustering tones. 'Curse me and upbraid me, if thou wilt. How art
thou come hither? Is it the ghost of Humphrey? Art thou dead like my
grandfather? Are we on the Plantations of Barbadoes?'
'Indeed, I am no ghost, Benjamin. As for curses, I have none; and as
for reproaches, I leave them to thy conscience.'
'Humphrey, I am sore afflicted. I am now so low that I cannot even
sit upright in my bed. But thou art a doctor--thou wilt bring me
back to health. I am already better only for seeing thee here.'
I declare that as yet I had no thought, no thought at all, of what
I was to do. I was but a physician in presence of a sick man, and
therefore bound to help him if I could.
I asked him first certain questions, as physicians use, concerning
his disorder and its symptoms. I learned that, after attending at
the Court, he was attacked by fits of shivering and of great heat,
being hot and cold alternately, and that in order to expel the fever
he had sat drinking the whole evening--a most dangerous thing to do.
Next, that in the morning he had been unable to rise from his bed,
and, being thirsty, had drunk more wine--a thing enough of itself
to kill a man in such a fever. Then he lost his head, and could
tell me no more what had happened until he saw me standing by his
bedside. In short, he had been in delirium, and was now in a lucid
interval, out of which he would presently fall a-wandering again,
and, perhaps, raving, and so another lucid interval, after which he
would die, unless something could be done for him.
I liked not his appearance nor the account which he gave me, nor did
I like his pulse, nor the strange look in his eyes--death doth often
show his coming by such a prophetic terror of the eyes.
'Humphrey,' he said pitifully. 'It was no fault of mine that thou
wast sent to the Plantations.'
'That I know full well, Cousin,' I answered him. 'Be easy on that
score.'
'And as for Alice,' he went on. 'All is fair in love.'
I made no reply, because at this point a great temptation assailed
my soul.
You have heard how I learned many secrets of the women while I was
abroad. Now, while we were in Providence Island I found a woman
of the breed they call half caste--that is, half Indian and half
Portuguese--living in what she called wedlock with an English
sailor, who did impart to me a great secret of her own people. I
obtained from her not only the knowledge of a most potent drug
(known already to the Jesuits), but also a goodly quantity of the
drug itself. This, with certain other discoveries and observations
of my own, I was about to communicate to the College in Warwick Lane.
As for this drug, I verily believe it is the most potent medicine
ever yet discovered. It is now some years since it was first brought
over to Europe by the Jesuits, and is therefore called _Pulvis
Jesuiticus_, and sometimes Peruvian Bark. When administered at such
a stage of the fever as had now been reached by my unhappy cousin,
it seldom fails to vivify the spirits, and so to act upon the nerves
as to restore the sinking, and to call back to life a man almost
moribund.
Remembering this, I lugged the packet out of my pocket and laid it
on the table.
'Be of good cheer, Cousin,' I said; 'I have a drug which is strong
enough, with the help of God, to make a dying man sit up again.
Courage, then!'
* * * * *
When I had said these words my temptation fell upon me. It came in
the guise of a voice which whispered in my ear.
'Should this man die,' it said, 'there will be freedom for Alice.
She can then marry the man she loves. She will be restored to
happiness. While he lives, she must still continue in misery, being
cut off from love. Let him die therefore.'
* * * * *
'Humphrey,' said Ben; 'in this matter of Alice: if she will come
to me, I will make her happy. But I know not where she is hidden.
Things go ill with me since that unlucky day. I would to God I
had not done it! Nothing hath gone well since; and I drink daily
to hide her face. Yet at night she haunts me--with her father,
who threatens, and her mother, who weeps, and my grandfather, who
reproaches. Humphrey--tell me--what is it, man? What mean thy looks?'
For while he spoke that other voice was in my ears also.
'Should he die, Alice will be happy again. Should he live, she will
continue in misery.' At these words (which were but my own thoughts,
yet involuntary), I felt so great a pity, such an overwhelming love
for Alice, that my spirit was wholly carried away. To restore her
freedom! Oh! what price was too great for such a gift? Nay--I was
seized with the thought that to give her so great a thing, even my
own destruction would be a light price to pay. Never, until that
moment, had I known how fondly and truly I loved her. Why, if it
were to be done over again--but this matters not. I have to make my
confession.
'Humphrey, speak!' I suppose that my trouble showed itself in my
face.
'Thou art married to Alice,' I said slowly. 'That cannot be denied.
So long as thou livest, Benjamin, so long will she be robbed of
everything that she desires, so long will she be unhappy. Now, if
thou shouldst die'----
'Die? I cannot die; I must live.' He tried to raise himself, but he
was too weak. 'Cousin, save my life.'
'If thou shouldst die, Benjamin,' I went on, regardless of his
words, 'she will be set free. It is only by thy death that she can
be set free. Say then to thyself: "I have done this poor woman
so great an injury that nothing but my death can atone for it.
Willingly, therefore, will I lay down my life, hoping thus to atone
for this abominable wickedness."'
'Humphrey, do not mock me. Give me--give me--give me speedily the
drug of which you spoke. I die--I die!--Oh!--give me of thy drug.'
Then I took the packet containing the _Pulvis Jesuiticus_ and threw
it upon the fire, where in a moment it was a little heap of ashes.
'Now, Benjamin,' I said, 'I cannot help thee. Thou must surely die.'
He shrieked, he wept, he implored me to do something--something to
keep him alive. He began to curse and to swear.
'No one can now save thee, Benjamin,' I told him. 'Not all the
College of Physicians; not all the medicines in England. Thou must
die. Listen and heed: in a short time, unless thy present weakness
causeth thee to expire, there will fall upon thee another fit of
fever and delirium, after which another interval of reason: perhaps
another--but yet thou must surely die. Prepare thy soul, therefore.
Is there any message for Alice that thou wouldst send to her, being
now at the point of death?'
His only answer was to curse and weep alternately.
Then I knelt beside his bed, and prayed aloud for him. But
incessantly he cried for help, wearing himself out with prayers and
curses.
'Benjamin,' I said, when I had thus prayed a while, but
ineffectually, 'I shall take to Alice, instead of these curses,
which avail nothing, a prayer for pardon, in order to touch her
heart and cause her to think of thee with forgiveness, as of one
who repented at the end. This I shall do for her sake. I shall also
tell thy father that thy death was repentant, and shall take to him
also a prayer for forgiveness as from thee. This will lighten his
sorrow, and cause him to remember thee with the greater love. And
to Robin, too, so that he may cease to call thee villain, I will
carry, not these ravings, but a humble prayer (as from thyself) for
forgiveness.'
* * * * *
This is my confession: _I, who might have saved my cousin, suffered
him to die_.
* * * * *
The sick man, when he found that prayers or curses would not avail,
fell to moaning, rolling his head from side to side. When he was
thus quiet I prayed again for him, exhorting him to lift up his soul
to his Judge, and assuring him of our full forgiveness. But, indeed,
I know not if he heard or understood. It was then about four of the
clock, and growing dark. I lit a candle, and examined him again. I
think that he was now unconscious. He seemed as if he slept. I sat
down and watched.
I think that at midnight, or thereabouts, I must have fallen asleep.
When I awoke the candle was out, and the fire was out. The room was
in perfect darkness. I laid my hand upon my cousin's forehead. He
was cold and dead.
Then I heard the voice of the watchman in the street: 'Past two
o'clock, and a frosty morning!'
The voice I had heard before whispered again in my ear.
'Alice is free--Alice is free! Thou--thou--thou alone hast set her
free! Thou hast killed her husband!'
I threw myself upon my knees and spent the rest of that long night
in seeking for repentance; but then, as now, the lamentation of a
sinner is also mingled with the joy of thinking that Alice was free
at last, and by none other hand than mine.
This I repeat is my confession: I might have saved my cousin, and I
suffered him to die. Wherefore I have left the profession in which
it was my ambition to distinguish myself, and am no longer anything
but a poor and obscure person, living on the charity of my friends
in a remote village.
* * * * *
Two days afterwards I was sitting at the table, looking through the
dead man's papers, when I heard a footstep on the stair.
It was Barnaby, who broke noisily into the room.
'Where is Benjamin?' he cried. 'Where is that villain?'
'What do you want with him?'
'I want to kill him. I am come to kill him.'
'Look upon the bed, Barnaby.' I laid back the sheet and showed him
the pale face of the dead man.
'The hand of the Lord--or that of another--hath already killed him.
Art thou now content?'
CHAPTER THE LAST.
In the decline of years, when the sixtieth birthday is near at hand
and one looks not to live much longer, and the future hath no fresh
joy to bring with it (but only infirmities of age and pain), it
is profitable and pleasant to look back upon the past, to observe
the guidance of the Unseen Hand, to repent one's sins, and to live
over again those seasons, whether of sorrow or of joy, which we now
perceive to have been Providentially ordered.
This have I done, both in reading the history of our lives as
related by my Mistress, and in writing this latter part. To the
former have I added nothing, nor have I subtracted anything
therefrom, because I would not suffer the sweet and candid soul of
her whom I have always loved to be tarnished by any words of mine,
breaking in upon her own, as jarring notes in some lovely harmony.
It is strictly laid upon me to deliver her words just as she hath
written them down.
Now, after the death of Benjamin, I took it upon myself, being his
cousin, in the absence of his father, to examine the papers which he
had left. Among them I found abundance of songs, chiefly in praise
of wine and women, with tavern bills. Also, there were notes of
legal cases, very voluminous, and I found notes of payment made to
various persons engaged in inquiring after his wife, in those towns
of the West Country where her father's name would procure friends
for her. But there was no will; Benjamin had died (never looking
for so early an end) without making any will. Therefore the estate
of Bradford Orcas, with the old house, became the property of the
Rector, Benjamin's father. And he, being moved to make reparation
for his son's sin, and out of the great love which he bore to Alice,
conveyed the whole to Robin on the day of his marriage. Thus the
confiscated estate returned to the ancient family who had always
held it, and promise to hold it still, so long as the good old stock
shall last.
* * * * *
It is thirty years ago and more. King William III. is dead; Queen
Anne is dead; King George (who cannot, they say, speak English, but
is a stout Protestant) sits upon our throne; the Nonconformists are
free, save that they cannot enter the Universities, and are subject
to other disabilities, which will, doubtless, be removed in the
course of years. But English people, I think, love power beyond all
earthly things; and so long as the Church is in a majority the
Churchmen will exercise their power and will not part with it. To
us of Bradford Orcas it matters little. We worship at the parish
church. Every Sunday I contemplate, as I did fifty years ago, the
monument of Filipa kneeling apart, and of her husband and his second
wife kneeling together. There is a new tablet in the chancel put up
to the memory of Sir Christopher, and another to that of Dr. Comfort
Eykin. Their bodies lie somewhere among the mounds on the north side
of Ilminster Church.
Forty years ago, as you have seen, there stood three boys in the
garden of the Manor House discoursing on their future. One wished
never to go anywhere, but to remain always a country gentleman,
like his grandfather; one would be a great lawyer, a Judge, even
the Lord Chancellor; the third would be a great Physician. Lo!
the end of all! The first, but after divers miseries, perils, and
wanderings, hath attained to his desire; the second lies buried
in the churchyard of St. Andrew's, Holborn, forgotten long since
by his companions (who, indeed, are now with him in the pit), and
remembered only among his own kin for the great wickedness which
he wrought before the Lord. And, as for the third and last, no
illustrious physician is he; but one who lives obscure (but content)
in a remote village (in the very cottage where his Mistress was
born), with books and music, and the society of the sweetest woman
who ever graced this earth for his solace. She was always gracious:
she was gracious in her childhood; gracious as a maiden; more
gracious still is she in these latter days when her hair is grey,
and her daughters stand about her, tall and comely.
Now, had I administered that powder--that sovereign remedy, the
_Pulvis Jesuiticus_--what would have been her lot?
* * * * *
'Humphrey,' said Robin, 'a penny for thy thoughts.'
'Robin, I was thinking--it is not a new thing, but twenty years old
and more--that Cousin Benjamin never did anything in his life so
useful as to die.'
'Ay, poor Benjamin! That he had at the end the grace to ask our
forgiveness and to repent hath in it something of a miracle.
We have long forgiven him. But consider, Cousin. We were saved
from the fight; we were saved from the sea; we were saved from
slavery; we were enabled to strike the last blow for the Protestant
religion--what were all these blessings worth if Benjamin still
lived? To think, Humphrey, that Alice would never have been my wife
and never a mother; and all these children would have remained
unborn! I say that, though we may not desire the death of a sinner,
we were not human if we rejoiced not at the death of our poor
cousin.'
Yes; that is the thought which will not suffer me to repent. A
single pinch of the _Pulvis Jesuiticus_, and he might have been
living unto this very day: then would Alice have lost the crowning
blessing of a woman's life.
Yet--I was, it is true, a physician--whose duty it is to save life,
always to save life, even the life of the wretched criminal who is
afterwards to die upon the gallows.
Yet, again, if he had been saved! As I write these lines I see
my Mistress walking down the village street. She looks over my
garden-gate; she lifts the latchet and enters, smiling gravely and
tenderly. A sober happiness sits upon her brow. The terror of her
first marriage has long been forgotten.
* * * * *
Why, as I watch her tranquil life, busy with her household and
her children, full of the piety which asks not (as her father was
wont to ask) how and where the mercy of Heaven is limited, and if,
indeed, it will embrace all she loves; as I mark the tender love
of husband and of children, which lies around her like a garment
and prevents all her doings, there comes back to me continually
a bed-room in which a man lies dying. Again in memory, again
in _intention_, I throw upon the fire that handful of _Pulvis
Jesuiticus_ which should have driven away his fever and restored him
to health again. A great and strong man he was, who might have lived
till eighty years: where then would have been that love? where those
children? where that tranquil heart and that contented mind? '_I
WILL NOT SAVE HIS LIFE._' I say again in my mind: '_I WILL NOT SAVE
HIM; HE SHALL DIE._'
* * * * *
'Humphrey,' my Mistress says, 'leave thy books awhile and walk with
me: the winter sun is warm upon the hills. Come, it is the day when
Benjamin died--repentant--what better could we wish? What greater
blessing could have been bestowed upon him and upon us than a true
repentance and to die? Oh! dear Brother, dear Humphrey, let us
walk and talk of these blessings which have been showered upon my
undeserving head.
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