‘TWO SOULS MAY SLEEP AND WAKE UP ONE.’
It was about a week after Mr. Pentreath had begun _Werther_, and
he was now approaching the end of the story, when he came to the
minister’s house at his usual hour, and found Cynthia sitting alone
in the parlour. Naomi had a headache, and had gone up-stairs to lie
down. It was not often that Joshua Haggard’s daughter gave way to any
such feminine ailment, and it was a surprise to Oswald to find her
absent. He had been riding among his farms all the morning, looking
at ancient tiled roofs that had a tendency to subside in the middle;
at barns and cart-sheds, with mouldering thatches and worm-eaten
timbers; at enclosures of meadow-land, where primroses, cowslips, and
wild hyacinths grew abundantly, but where the grass was sour for lack
of draining.
‘I wanted her to rest on the sofa here,’ said Cynthia, ‘but she
fancied she would be better in a darkened room. She has been looking
ill for the last few days. I am sometimes afraid’--timidly, and with
hesitation--‘that she is not quite happy.’
‘I am afraid we are none of us quite happy,’ answered Oswald, with an
undisguised sigh.
Cynthia’s needle travelled to and fro with the usual rhythm. It
seemed to Oswald as if it were some weary tune to which he was forced
to listen.
‘Shall I go on with _Werther_?’ he asked presently, after he had
looked at the stocks and carnations, and over them at the sleepy
old inn, where the landlord stood in his porch and contemplated his
neighbours, like an image of immutability. People who could remember
Combhaven twenty years ago remembered just the same figure in the
porch. It had grown a trifle more obese in the twenty years, that was
all.
‘I would rather you waited till Naomi was well enough to hear the
end,’ said Cynthia.
‘But are not you anxious to know what becomes of that unhappy wretch?
Have you no pity for him?’ asked Oswald almost angrily.
‘I pity him for being so wretched,’ answered Cynthia; ‘but I think
if he had been good, and wise, and brave, he would have gone far away
where he would never have seen Charlotte any more. Instead of writing
unhappy letters to his friend he would have prayed to God to help
him, and fled from temptation.’
‘You will see that in the end he did go away--very far from Charlotte
and temptation. But you have seen him in the heat of the battle: you
will see him by and by a conqueror--or conquered--whichever you like
to call it.’
‘Will you let me read the end for myself? You can read it aloud to us
both when Naomi is better.’
‘No; you shall hear the end as you have heard the rest--from my lips.’
‘But Naomi--’ expostulated Cynthia.
‘I will read it again to Naomi. Why should I not read it to you this
afternoon? You have been more interested in the story than Naomi.’
Cynthia made no further objection, but went on with her work
silently. Oswald took his favourite seat by the open window, in the
shadow of the chintz curtain, with the spicy odours of stocks and
carnations floating in upon the sultry air. They had the room almost
entirely to themselves. Aunt Judith came in and out two or three
times in the afternoon on some small errand, and looked at the two
with a curious expression in her sharp black eyes--a look which might
have set Oswald thinking had he been observant enough to notice it.
But he was deep in the sorrows of Werther, who was fast approaching
his final agony, and Cynthia was listening as she had listened that
other day in the wood, with her hands lying idle in her lap, and the
glossy white linen she had been working upon crumpled in a heap under
those idle hands.
‘Very nicely Joshua’s new shirts will get on at that rate, and she
so eager to set about them,’ mused Judith as she went back to the
shop, with close-locked lips; ‘to think that novel-reading and such
abominations should flourish in my brother’s house. But what else
could be expected of such a marriage? Lucky for Joshua if nothing
worse comes of it.’
Oswald read on, in nowise disturbed by Miss Haggard’s entrance to
look for an account-book in the bureau, or to get her thimble from
the chimneypiece. He had come to that scene of abject passion--of
self-abandonment and despair--when Werther, having resolved to put
an end to his misery, comes in the winter evening to see his idol
for the last time. Forgetful of herself for the moment, Charlotte
reproaches him for coming. She shrinks from the idea of being alone
with him, and recovers her self-possession with an effort. She seats
herself at her harpsichord, and begins a minuet; then asks Werther to
read to her his own translation of a part of Ossian, which he brought
her a few days ago. Perhaps no scene in the wide range of sentimental
fiction surpasses this in restrained power, in suppressed passion.
Not a whisper, not a thought of impurity sullies the picture from the
first line to the last: there is only a fatal, irresistible love.
‘She tore herself from him, and in hopeless bewilderment, trembling
between love and anger, she cried, “This is the last time, Werther!
You must see me no more!” And casting a look full of love upon the
wretched one, she fled into the adjoining room, and shut the door
behind her. Werther stretched out his arms after her, but dared
not detain her. He lay upon the ground, his head on the sofa, and
remained in this position for half an hour, until a sudden noise
recalled him to himself. It was the servant, who came to lay the
table. He walked up and down the room; and when he found himself
alone again, went to Charlotte’s door, and called in a low voice,
“Lotte, Lotte!--only one word--one farewell!” There was no answer.
He waited, and knocked, and waited again; then tore himself away,
crying, “Farewell, Lotte! Farewell for ever!”’
Cynthia sat listening with dilated eyes and hands tightly clasped, as
if the whole scene were reality--as if she could see Werther there at
her feet, grovelling on the ground. There stood the open harpsichord
at which Charlotte had been playing. The vivid picture shaped itself
before her eyes. The winter evening and home-like fire-lit room, the
hopeless sinner lying there unpitied and alone, the suicide’s dark
resolve in his mind; and Charlotte knew not his fatal intention.
She refused him the poor comfort of a last farewell. No hand was
stretched out to save him. It was too awful a picture.
Cynthia clasped her hands before her face, and burst into tears. In
the next moment Oswald was on his knees beside her, trying to unclasp
those small nervous hands.
‘You pity _him_,’ he cried passionately; ‘pity me, then, for I suffer
as he suffered; I love as he loved, and yet have courage to live,
and to go on fighting with an invincible passion--though I feel the
struggle is vain--and to try to be happy with another; yes, to hold
firmly to the tie which once promised happiness, and which now means
only bondage. Pity me, Cynthia, pity _me_; not that poor shadow in
the book, who lived and suffered, and is dead and at rest; for there
was such a man. Pity me, Cynthia; for I have loved you, and have
been fighting against that love ever since that sweet time before my
father’s death, when you came to his sick-bed as an angel of mercy,
and brought woe unutterable to me.’
He had poured forth his confession in a torrent of words not to be
arrested by Cynthia’s choked sobs or look of horror, or the pleading
gesture of her tremulous hands.
‘Oswald, how can you be so cruel?’
‘Cruel! Is it cruel to suffer, to be miserable, to know myself the
worst and weakest of men, and to hate myself--as I do, Cynthia,
from my soul? Do you think I have not struggled? Yes, and conquered
myself, after a fashion. I am going to marry Naomi, and we are to be
a happy couple,--as married couples go nowadays--happier than nine
out of ten, perhaps; for, at least, I can admire and respect my wife;
and I once believed I loved her, before I knew you and the hidden
depths of my own heart, and the meaning of that word “love.” Yes,
we are going to be vastly happy. The builders are doing wonders for
our house; and we shall be thought much of and looked up to by the
neighbourhood. I may keep a pack of hounds very likely by and by, and
teach my wife to ride across country. I am not going to shoot myself,
as Werther did.’
‘Why did you read that book to me?’ asked Cynthia, with a piteous
accent that thrilled him. It sounded like an admission of
weakness--a faint cry of despair.
‘Why?’ he cried, trying to take her hands in both his own. ‘Can’t
you understand why? Because it is my own story; because it was my
only way of telling you my love, and I burned to tell you. It was an
irresistible longing. I could not keep silence any longer. Somehow,
in some language, if not in plainest speech, I must tell you. And now
bid me die, my Charlotte, and I will slay myself, like Werther. Only
say to me, Life would be easier for all of us if thou wert dead, and
I will not live another day to disturb your placid existence. I am
your slave, dearest, your abject obedient slave!’
‘If you are,’ said Cynthia, trembling violently, and paler than the
wood anemones she had gathered to deck the old Squire’s sick-room,
‘if you are, you will obey me. Never speak to me again as you have
spoken to-day; forget that you have ever been so wicked. Ask your
Saviour to give you a better heart, and respect my dear husband and
his daughter.’
Before Oswald could answer honest Sally entered with the big
mahogany tea-tray, knowing no more of the thundercloud of passion
in the atmosphere than the maid who laid the supper in the story of
Werther. Mr. Pentreath had risen from his knees to pace the room
after that last speech of his, and there was no extraordinary picture
offered to the eye of the handmaiden. Cynthia folded her work even
more carefully than usual, but with hands that trembled sorely. She
smoothed the white linen garment which had progressed so slightly
towards completion this afternoon, and laid it in its allotted place,
and took her stand by the window, watching for her husband’s return.
She tried to seem at her ease, but not the faintest tinge of colour
relieved the absolute pallor of her face. Strangely was that face
changed from the radiant countenance that had welcomed Joshua Haggard
at Penmoyle one little year ago.
Oswald walked up and down the parlour while Sally set out the homely
feast--a big loaf in an iron tray, a brown butter-pot of Wedgewood’s
ware, a dish of lettuce and overgrown radishes. Anon appeared Miss
Haggard; and had either Oswald or Cynthia been in an observant mood,
they might have remarked that the industrious Judith had not paid as
much attention as usual to her afternoon toilet. The corkscrew curls
were somewhat roughened, the large mosaic brooch, which she was wont
to put on by way of evening dress, was missing.
‘I think I’ll go and have a look at the builders,’ said Oswald,
taking up his hat. ‘I’ll come round again in the evening, perhaps,
and see how Naomi is.’
No one attempted to hinder his going; so, after a brief adieu to the
two ladies, he departed, leaving Werther lying on the little round
table by the window. Cynthia took up the volume, and turned eagerly
to the page at which he had left off reading.
‘Ah!’ sighed Miss Haggard, ‘that’s the worst of novel-reading. It
grows upon people.’
Cynthia neither heeded nor heard. Her thoughts were with the suicide
who was roaming bareheaded in the winter night, outside the gates of
the little town, not knowing whither or how long he wandered.
Joshua came in while his wife was standing with the open book in her
hand, absorbed, unconscious of his entrance.
‘Why, little one, how pale you are!’ he said, in that gentler tone
which his voice assumed unwittingly whenever he spoke to his wife. ‘I
missed your welcoming look as I came across the street.’
‘There’s too much novel-reading in this family,’ snapped Judith. ‘You
mustn’t expect things to go on as they ought, if you let the young
Squire bring bad books into your house.’
‘This is not a bad book!’ cried Cynthia indignantly. ‘It is a
beautiful book!’
‘I say that it is a bad book!’ answered Judith fiercely. ‘And I’ve
good reason to know it--a book that puts bad thoughts into people’s
heads. Gainsay me if you dare, Mrs. Haggard!’
Cynthia’s white face turned from her dumbly. What did she guess--what
had she overheard? Something assuredly. Deepest shame took possession
of Joshua’s wife. She felt the burden of unspeakable guilt--she who
was only the passive object of an unauthorised passion.
‘Why, Judith, Cynthia, what is this! Who would dare to bring a wicked
book into my house; my son that is soon to be, above all? And if he
were capable of doing such a shameful thing, would my wife read the
book?’
‘It is not wicked,’ said Cynthia, handing him the offending
_Werther_. ‘It is a story of sorrow--not wickedness. If stories are
to be written at all, they must tell of sorrow--and human weakness,
and sinfulness. Even the Bible tells us that life is made up of
these.’
‘Very much so,’ remarked Judith. ‘There’s nothing the Bible says
about human nature’s wickedness that human nature doesn’t faithfully
carry out.’
Joshua took the book and glanced at it helplessly. He was not able
to take a bird’s-eye view of plot and style, swoop upon a catchword
here and there, and straightway made up his mind that the book was
altogether vile, after the manner of certain modern critics. He
turned the leaves thoughtfully, saw a story told in a series of
letters, much talk of the beauties of Nature, a little philosophy,
some mention of a country pastor and children--their innocent
gambols in rustic gardens, their affection for a kind elder sister,
bread-and-butter, village life, a pastoral air altogether: not a bad
book assuredly, decided Joshua.
‘I do not think, my dear Judith, that you are a very acute judge of
literature,’ he said mildly.
‘Perhaps not,’ assented Miss Haggard, with a faint moan. ‘But I hope
I am a tolerable judge of human nature.’
‘I can trust my future son’s honour for not bringing any ill-chosen
book into my house; and I can trust my wife’s purity well enough to
know that it would revolt against anything evil.’
‘Nothing like trustfulness in this life,’ remarked Judith
sententiously, as she took up the teapot.
Now a general proposition--indisputable in its nature though vague in
its drift--flung out in this way, has a tendency to instil disquiet
into the most tranquil mind. There was not much in the words, but the
tone meant a great deal; most of all, a kind of scornful pity. It
was like that remark of Iago’s anent Michael Cassio’s honesty--the
plainest, most straightforward observation; yet dropping the poison
seed of doubt into the heart of the listener.
Joshua Haggard looked at his sister’s pursed-up lips wonderingly,
and then at his wife’s pale face, in which there was an expression
that was new to him.
Great heavens! what did it mean? Not guilt; not the lightest taint
of evil? No; he could never believe the faintest shadow of evil
of his beloved--not even the most venial deceit, the smallest
double-dealing. She was the purest of the pure--pure as the saintly
damsels of old--the women who ministered to the apostles in the
sweet early dawn of Christianity. He could admit her to be no less
pure than these--as white a soul--unsullied by human frailty. He
had preached the sinfulness of the human heart--it was the very
keystone of his creed--a sinful humanity in need of being called and
regenerated, chosen and purified, redeemed by a vicarious sacrifice.
But here he was false to his own theology: he would not admit of
original sin in this one pure soul. Love had issued his imperious
edict, like a papal bull, and this one woman was to be without sin.
‘My love, you are trembling,’ said Joshua, taking his wife’s cold
hand, after a long and earnest scrutiny of the pale sad face. ‘There
must be something amiss in the book if it has agitated you so.’
‘It is a very sorrowful story,’ she faltered; ‘I could not help
crying--at the end.’
‘Oswald must bring you no more books to make you unhappy. I heard
you all laughing pleasantly one afternoon when he was reading some
Scotch book about an old gentleman and a dog. He must bring you only
pleasant books. In a world where there is so much real sorrow, it
is foolish and even wrong to waste our tears upon story-books. That
is one reason why I have always tried to keep such books out of my
house.’
‘I will never read such stories again,’ said Cynthia earnestly. ‘Only
tell me how to please you, and I will be obedient in all things.’
Judith sighed audibly. It was a way she had at times, and always
exercised a depressing influence upon her family circle.
‘Is there anything wrong, Judith?’ inquired the minister.
‘No, brother; it’s only my chest.’
This was her invariable answer; but as medical science had never
yet discovered anything amiss in this region--not so much as a brief
attack of indigestion--the reply was generally accepted as a sort
of formula, and her sighing was taken to mean something which Miss
Haggard did not choose to communicate.
‘My dearest, you have always been obedient,’ said Joshua, pressing
his wife’s little hand; ‘I have never been dissatisfied with you. But
I do not like to see you low-spirited about a foolish book, written
by some weak-minded German,’ said Joshua, with a sublime ignorance as
to the pretentions of the great Wolfgang.
‘Try me with some hard thing,’ exclaimed Cynthia, with increasing
earnestness; ‘put my gratitude and affection to the proof. Do I
forget what you have done for me--how you saved me from heathen
ignorance? how I owe you all that I am and all that I hope to be?
_Could_ I be ungrateful to you, my benefactor and my deliverer?’
Had Judith Haggard been a student of Shakespeare, she would have here
quoted Ophelia’s remark upon the Player-queen inwardly or audibly--
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much!’
But as her sole notion of the poet was that he had been rather a low
and loose-lived person who wrote plays, and glorified much drinking
of sack and canary as a cardinal virtue, she relieved her feelings
with another sigh, deeper than the last.
‘Don’t mind me, brother,’ she said; ‘it’s only my chest.’
Joshua neither heard the sigh nor the excuse; his eyes were fixed
upon his wife’s white face, down which the gathering tears rolled
slowly.
‘Ungrateful, my love!’ he cried; ‘have I ever claimed gratitude from
you? My part has been to thank God for having given me so dear a
companion. Only be happy, my darling; that is the sole obedience I
ask from you. Let no foolish fancies out of books disturb your peace
of mind. God has given us real happiness, dear; let us be thankful
for it and value it, lest the cloud should come upon us because we
have made light of the sunshine.’
He drew her to him and kissed her tenderly; and in that hour at least
there was no shadow of distrust in his mind.