FURTHER DIAGNOSIS
Doctor Marmion, of New York, was greatly drawn toward his young patient
at the Monastery, and as he saw him daily wasting away, he concluded that
something more than medicine was needed to save his life. The secretary
still dragged himself through each day's work, spending the evening in
his room with Tom. The day after the doctor's arrival the second time,
Tom being in school and Bishop Albertson away, he found himself in the
office alone with Carl. He had hardly hoped for so early an opportunity
to interview his interesting patient. But taking advantage of the
opportunity, exclaimed:
"Well, Carl, you have improved, I hope, since I was here?"
"I fear there has not been much improvement in my physical condition; nor
do I much expect any; and, really, to tell you the truth, Doctor, I am
almost wishing for the end," was the young man's reply.
"Carl," said Dr. Marmion in earnest tones, "if you would give me your
confidence, I feel sure that I could help you, and I will be candid with
you. If you don't give that confidence to someone, it will only be the
worse for you. Disease is not the only thing that kills."
"Doctor," was the quiet reply, "I sincerely thank you for the interest
you take in me, but really your words give me pleasure instead of
anxiety. Truly, it is not unpleasant to be warned that I have no
assurance of life. I have nothing to live for. My life is wrecked, and I
have not a friend in the world. Why should I desire to prolong my life?"
"Carl," said the doctor, "listen. Everything you say springs from
mistaken and blind selfishness. Yours is the spirit of the suicide and
coward; surely, this is unworthy of you. And, besides, what you say is
not true. Your life is not wrecked, only as you determine to wreck it.
You say you have nothing to live for. I know of no young man that has
more to live for. You foolishly and ungratefully say you haven't a friend
in the world. You certainly know the contrary is true. Everyone who knows
you is your friend. Is Bishop Albertson not your friend? Is Tom not your
friend? Is that sweet young girl in the other part of the house, whom you
have caused to give her innocent heart to you, not your friend? By some
mistake you have crippled your life. But the good Lord, who pities his
erring child, will help you to redeem and make it both useful and happy.
Bear with me, Carl, when I say, if you know that there is a way by which
the usefulness and happiness of your life may be restored and redeemed,
and you refuse to adopt it, you will be guilty of self-murder. Forgive me
for these seemingly harsh words. God knows they are true, and my only
plea for thus speaking them to you is my love for you. I cannot refrain."
Carl sat with drooping head and with tears coursing down his pale cheeks.
For a moment or two he sat silently sobbing; his whole frame was shaking,
and looking up with a woebegone countenance, said: "Doctor, let me come
to your room tonight after chapel prayers."
"Very well; I shall be glad to see you," said Doctor Marmion, kindly, and
rising, he went out, leaving Carl alone.
At the close of the evening service the doctor and Carl found themselves
alone in the vestry. The younger man took from the pocket of his top coat
a package, and, handing it to the doctor, said: "I want you to take this
package and open it; it will tell its own tale."
Somewhat surprised, the doctor went to a stand close by and did as he was
requested. The next moment he stood speechless with astonishment, for he
held in his hands money, English bank notes, more than he had ever before
seen. What did it all mean?
"There, Doctor," sobbed Carl, who had approached him, tremblingly, "is
my crime; and growing out of it is my other and greater crime. I have
been and still am a living lie. My father and mother think me dead. They
have suffered--how much, I cannot tell. And my father was here. His
expected coming made me ill; nor did he see me. Are you surprised that I
do not desire to live? Father's belief in my death is easier for him to
bear than it would be to know that I am alive and a criminal."
Then it was for the first time that the doctor grasped the full
story--that this gifted, promising young man, lovable and genial, so
attractive as to appeal to him as no other had ever done, should, of all
men, prove a thief, one who had stolen a large amount of money from the
great bank. The doctor was dumfounded! He knew not what to say.
Silence prevailed for a few moments; then the doctor's good judgment
inspired him to say in emphatic tones: "Carl, our first step in righting
this great wrong is to get the money back to where it belongs. I will see
to it. You may rely on me, and the sooner it is done, the better. I will
take the next boat and tomorrow forward the money by express to London.
This will not be difficult," added the doctor. "But you have before you
another duty equally as great. You must next enlighten your parents
concerning your existence and whereabouts."
This was truly the most difficult as well as delicate, and Carl shrank
back from it. "Is it not sufficient to return the money?" he pleaded.
"No, my dear boy, the return of the money is only a part of your
obligation. No part of your debt must be left unpaid. To fail here would
mean utter failure. Everything in this matter must be made clear, and
then you will be enabled to begin life anew."
But Carl, with anguish in his tones as well as in his countenance,
exclaimed: "_Must_ my father and mother be told everything concerning
my criminality? That he has a son who deserves a prison sentence? No!
no! Better to let me die; better for both mother and father as well
as myself."
"Carl," sternly replied the doctor, "you know not what you ask. Would
you die with a lie on your soul? You said a moment ago that you are a
living lie. Would you die thus? You are willing to pay your debt to the
bank, but you are not willing to be just to those who love you with a
love which none but a parent can experience. I am a parent and know all
about it."
"Well, Doctor," said Carl, when he had grown more composed, "can we not
do one thing at a time? Can we not take the money and send it to the
owners, and suffer the other matter to rest at least for the present,
until we conclude how to manage it?"
"Carl," replied the doctor, as he pushed the package toward the young
man, "there is only one right way, and that is to become truly sorry for
wrongdoing, and cheerfully and bravely make retribution to all parties
you have injured. Anything short of this is not fair, and will do you no
good. If I take any hand in this matter, it must be to right the whole.
But, Carl, don't you see, you make no sacrifice in sending back the
money--money you have been unable to use? Had you been able to use it, it
might have been very different; it doubtless would have been. Its return
is not necessarily an evidence of either penitence or reform. It is
simply a confession of defeat. A coward can give up that which he cannot
use to his convenience. And is it possible, after all you have said about
being a living lie, is it possible that you are unwilling to pay any part
of the price of your unfortunate actions? Penitence is like charity. It
never counts cost. It is a godly sorrow for sin, and is willing to accept
results, be they ever so bitter."
"Doctor," said Carl, in complete surrender, "Let it be so. I am willing
to pay the price, even to death. I plead no more for my own sake, but I
would, if possible, save those who love me from humiliation and agony,
which to them would be more terrible than death."
"Here you mistake again," replied the doctor. "You imagine that your
father's pride is stronger than his love."
"So I do," stammered Carl. "I believe that my father would much rather
believe that his son is dead than to know that he is a criminal. There
has never been a stain on my father or mother's name until--until I
brought this one upon it and the holy office he occupies. Then, they have
lived through the anguish of believing me to be dead, and it is terrible
to think of bringing into their declining years a deeper sorrow. Ah,
believe me, Doctor, it is not my happiness I desire, but to save them
from deeper pain. If I am acting wrongly, I pray God, whom I now ask for
pardon, may direct me aright."
"I greatly fear," replied the doctor, "that you are only willing to be
directed in your own way. But I must leave you. The boat passes
Centerville in an hour. I will take the money and send it by express on
tomorrow's steamer."
As has been told, the money was duly received by the cashier of the Bank
of England.
As Mr. Bone opened the package, he discovered that the notes had been
first wrapped in a sheet of substantial letter paper, and sealed at both
ends. As he was about to drop this wrapper into the waste basket his eye
caught sight of a water mark; the letters were "C.A. Marmion, N.Y.,
U.S.A." Thinking that this might prove important, he preserved it for
future reference. He laid it upon his desk and a few days later he wrote
and mailed the following letter:
"London, May 25, 18--.
"MR. C.A. MARMION, New York, U.S.A:
"Dear Sir: A few days since I received an express package containing
fifty thousand pounds. The signature was to us unimportant, as we felt
sure it was not the name of the writer, but your paper bears the imprint
(water mark) of your name, and I concluded that you are interested in the
matter, so I take the liberty of addressing you.
"Inclosed find an announcement we have made in many papers. The directors
of the Bank of England have now received two thirds of the amount stolen
April 11, 18--, and hereby announce that the persons who have the
remainder of the stolen money, if they return it, will not be prosecuted.
"STEPHEN BONE."