AN HYPOTHETICAL CASE
There seemed to come to Carl some improvement in his physical condition;
but there still came over him hours of great depression and despondency,
when even Tom could do little to cheer him.
Dr. Marmion in his correspondence with Bishop Albertson had hitherto made
no revelation of Carl's case. But the conviction came upon him that he,
himself, was guilty of what he condemned in others and especially in
Carl, in allowing the bishop to retain in his service a man who, in the
eyes of the law, was a criminal, the perpetrator of a great crime. He
concluded to write the bishop an hypothetical letter, describing this
case, asking his judgment; and in this way find out what course the
bishop would pursue if such a case should come into his life, and he
wrote the following:
"MY DEAR BISHOP ALBERTSON: To whom but you can I go for advice in an
important matter, which at this time is causing me much perplexity? I
feel sure that your conscientious judgment will help me to arrive at an
equitable conclusion. To you this may be hypothetical, but to me it is
much worse.
"Suppose, then, a young man, well born, and so far well trained, at
twenty years of age, away from home, falls into bad company, and,
yielding to temptation, commits a great crime, but, escaping by a bit of
sagacious stratagem, succeeds in causing his parents to believe that he
is dead and mourn him as such, wholly unsuspicious in their minds that he
has committed a crime. In the meantime he, in a distant land, lives a
useful and honorable life, deeply repenting the sad mishap of his life,
and fully redeeming his crime, so that no one but himself and the unhappy
parents suffer by his unfortunate act. Furthermore, he occupies a most
honorable and useful position, his employer, of course, knowing nothing
of his previous misdeeds. Now, as already has been inferred, this young
man is living a pure and honorable life, loved by all who know him; but
he claims that to reveal to his parents the fact that he is alive would
entail more and deeper sorrow upon them than to allow them to continue to
believe him dead. He declares that they would suffer less in believing
him dead than to know him to be a living criminal.
"Now, my dear Bishop, I write this note to you, calling it hypothetical;
but to me, it is more than hypothetical--it is a real case. This young
man is one of my patients, and I love him as dearly as if he were my own
son for his noble qualities and his sincere penitence, as well as for the
pure life he lives. His physical condition is indeed precarious, and I
feel sure that his life will be shortened unless he receives relief.
Kindly give me your righteous judgment of this case. I have his
confidence, and cannot betray it; hence the secrecy of this inquiry.
"Sincerely yours,
"MARMION."
A few days later the doctor received the following:
"MY DEAR DOCTOR MARMION: Your hypothetical (?) note is here. I have read
it several times, with increasing interest, and with a prayerful desire
to be able to assist you to arrive at a righteous decision in what seems
to be a very important matter.
"First. You say (if I understand correctly) that restitution has been
made to the parties against whom the crime was perpetrated. That is well
and so far satisfactory.
"But, second. The crime was a double one. When _that_ wrong was righted
to the first parties, then the second parties, in the deception practiced
upon them, suffered more and longer than the parties of the first part,
so that really the crime is only partially expiated until the wronged
parents are undeceived, and he has made his peace with them. I feel safe
in saying that this young man will never be happy, nor his physical
condition improved, until he pays the full price of his sin. All who have
been wronged must be righted. Depend upon it, his life will be chaotic,
unreliable, and unhappy until he makes a clean breast of it to his
parents. When he does this, if I were his father, I would take him to my
heart, and give him a father's love and forgiveness. If I were his
employer, and he came to me honestly confessing his sin, I should not
dare to withhold either my confidence or my love. I should pity as a
father pities, and I should say: "Go, sin no more."
"Now, my dear Doctor, in conclusion, this son (not you) should be the one
to undeceive the parents. I can and do understand the _delicate reason_
which actuates him in fearing to undeceive his parents in regard to his
being alive, while they have and do believe him dead. If you can remove
this deep impression from his mind, all will soon be right. _But he must
do this himself_, not by letter either, he must go to his father; yes, he
must arise and go to his father.
"Affectionately yours,
"ALBERTSON."
The bishop sat in his office six feet away from his secretary, while
writing this letter of reply, and when he had concluded it he did as was
his custom in his correspondence--passed both letters over to his
secretary to read aloud.
In a few moments Carl picked up Marmion's letter. After reading a few
sentences he halted, saying: "Bishop, this seems to be a confidential
letter. Shall I continue?"
"O, yes," replied the bishop, "there are no names mentioned; read on. I
want to know if my answer sounds right, and I can learn that best by
hearing it read."
Carl had grasped the spirit and meaning, and he already knew what was
coming. But he proceeded and somewhat hesitatingly read it through.
Having done this, he was in the act of handing both letters back, when
the good bishop, with a wave of his hand, said: "Now read my reply,
please, _that_ is the most important thing--read slowly, please."
The dismayed secretary felt that this was indeed crucifixion. Why had not
the doctor spared him this? Did he not know that the letter would come
under his eye? His first thought was to decline under the plea of
nervousness; then, he thought this would be cowardly and unmanly. No, he
would read, and at the close would decide. The bishop was a poor scribe,
and his writing was always difficult to decipher; so taking this as an
excuse, he plodded along slowly, and thereby gave himself a chance to
hide his real feelings. But still he found this a difficult task, for
his voice trembled perceptibly, and when he came to the latter part,
where the father said he would welcome his son back to his home and
heart, he stopped, his head dropped upon his hand on the table, and the
paper fell from his grasp to the floor. The bishop arose quickly, and
caught him in his arms, or he too would have fallen. In a few moments,
with the assistance of Alice, Carl was laid upon two chairs. The bishop
with the assistance of the registrar, who was hastily summoned from the
next room, bore the unconscious secretary into another room and laid him
upon the bed.
The terrible strain had been too much for the young man's weak condition.
It was not long, however, before he slowly opened his eyes, and, looking
up, he saw Alice gazing at him with anxious solicitude, while with her
soft hand she was bathing his temples and brow.
Then all the circumstances came back to him, and he heard the gentle
voice of the young girl bending over him. "Carl, dear," she was saying,
"you are better now, and will soon be all right again."
"Alice," said the young man, faintly, "I shall never be all right again.
It is too late."
"No, it is not too late, Carl," was the smiling reply, "you have many
happy years before you. You are not strong. You must have a rest, and
then your strength will return and so will your courage."
Mrs. Albertson came in at this point, bringing a cup of tea and a
wafer, and succeeded in getting the patient to drink the tea. Then the
bishop returned quietly and took a chair by the bedside, and soon both
ladies retired.
This incident had been a revelation to the slowly acting powers of the
bishop's mind; a quicker perception would have grasped the whole case
much sooner, and might have obviated much trouble. But now the revelation
had forced itself upon the unsuspecting mind of the prelate. Now he fully
understood Dr. Marmion's letter, and, also, the cause of Carl's fainting.
All his fatherly instincts were aroused, and taking the hand of the
revived youth, he said, very tenderly: "My poor boy."
"O, Bishop," sobbed the young man, "Let me go! Turn me out! I have been a
living lie to you and yours."
In his rapidly returning strength he arose as he thus spoke. "Forgive
me," he continued, disconsolately, "and let me get away out of your
sight. I will disgrace you no longer." He had secured his hat and moved
toward the door, but the bishop gently detained him, saying: "Wait, Carl.
Do nothing in haste. If you are sufficiently strong let us walk out into
the park. The fresh air will help you."
It was a beautiful autumn day. All around them the scene was bright and
peaceful. The trees were beginning to cast off their leaves. In the
exercise grounds the laughter of the students in their games was heard,
emphasizing the happiness of life and the joy of living. They sat down on
one of the rustic seats. After a few moments of silence, and when Carl
seemed to have become more calm, the bishop in a subdued tone said: "My
dear boy, I am glad this hour has come. You have my sincere forgiveness,
as well as my unbroken confidence. Let that suffice between you and me; I
forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven, and I love you more than ever.
But, Carl, there is yet another duty which you must perform. It has been
left too long undone already. It should have had the first place, but it
is not too late."
"I know, I know," interrupted the youth, desperately, "but it is
impossible. How can I tell my father and mother that their son lives, and
that he is a criminal and a liar? Can I inflict this upon them? They have
by this time passed through the bitterest pang in believing me to be
dead. Why now bring a deeper sorrow to their hearts?"
"Listen, my son; let me talk a moment without interruption. You are not
_now_ responsible for consequences. _You owe this debt and it must be
paid_. It is just as much a part of the debt you owe--yes, just as much
as the money that you returned. You cannot repudiate it and retain your
self-respect. No man can respect himself any more than he can respect
another who is able and yet refuses to pay a just debt. Now, you have
paid your debt to the bank, and they have forgiven you. You have
confessed your fault to me, and I gladly pardon you, and this confession
and repentance enhances my love for you. Now, think you that your father
and mother will do less? You are both unjust and unkind to him whom I
have known and loved from my earliest manhood; and I must, also, add,
that if you still refuse to pay this part of your debt, my confidence in
your repentance will be lessened."
"Bishop," said the youth, slowly, as if weighing well his words, "I see
it all now. But how can I do this? Can you not, will you not, write to
my father?"
"No, Carl," was the reply, "you must, in response to your honest heart,
do this yourself, nor must it be done through a letter."
Carl was thoughtful for a few moments. Then he arose. "Bishop," said he,
"I will follow your advice. I will leave at once for England."
"This, my boy," said the bishop, also rising, "is what you must do. I
was sure you would see it in this light. It is the only course."
At midnight Carl caught the New York boat, landing in that city in time
for early breakfast.
Carl could not pass through the city without calling upon his kind friend
Marmion. The Doctor was delighted to see him, and especially when he
learned the young man's errand--that he was on his way to pay the last
installment of his debt.
He prevailed upon Carl to stay with him until the following Saturday, and
then accompanied him to the steamer Europa, on which Carl sailed for
Liverpool.