"A gentleman, Arthur,--I mean any one trying to be a whole
gentleman,--is a very helpless creature, nowadays, in matters of this
sort."
He looked formidable, and as he lightly grasped a chair at his side it
seemed about to be turned into a weapon.
"The old thing once called satisfaction," he continued, "is something
one can no longer either ask or offer, in any form. He can neither rail,
nor strike, nor spellbind, nor challenge, nor lampoon, nor prosecute."
"Nearly as helpless as a clergyman," said Arthur.
"Almost," replied the visitor. "No, there is no more satisfaction in any
of those things, for him, than if he were all a clergyman is supposed to
be. There is none even in saying this, to you, here, now, and I'm not
here to say it. Neither am I here to vindicate myself--no, nor yet
Isabel--with professions or arguments to you; I might as well argue with
a forest fire."
"Quite as well. What are you here for?"
"Be patient and I'll tell you; I'm trying to be so with you."
"You--trying"--
"Stop that nonsense, Arthur. Ah me, Arthur Winslow, I have no wish to
humiliate you. Through the loyalty of your wife's pure heart, whatever
humiliates you must humiliate her. Oh, I could wish her in her shroud
and coffin rather than have her suffer the humiliation you have prepared
for yourself and for her through you."
Arthur showed a thrill of alarm. "Do you propose to go down to public
shame and drag us all with you?"
"No, nor to let you, if I can prevent you. Arthur, you have allowed a
base jealousy to persuade you, in the face of every contrary evidence,
that your fair young wife has lost her loyalty--and your nearest friend
the commonest honesty--in a clandestine love. Under the goadings of that
passion you have foully guessed, have heartlessly accused, have brazenly
lied. Isabel has confessed nothing to you, and I know by your lies to
me how pusillanimously you must have been lying to her. Had your guess
been right, I should not have known you were only guessing, and your
successful iniquity would have remained hidden from everybody but
yourself--I still do you the honor to believe you would have realized
it. Now the vital question is, do you realize it, and will you undo it?"
Arthur was deadly pale; his pointing finger trembled. "Leave"--he
choked--"leave this house."
Leonard turned scarlet, but his tone sank low. "Arthur, I don't believe
your soul is rotten. If I did, I should not be such a knave or such a
fool as to make any treaty with you that would leave you in your pulpit
one Sabbath Day."
"What do you--what do you mean by that?"
"I mean that such a treaty would be foul faith to everybody."
"So, then, you do propose one common shipwreck for us all."
"Quite the contrary. To trust the fortunes of our loved ones to any
treaty with a rotten soul would indeed be to launch them upon a stormy
sea in a rotten boat. But I do not believe your soul is so. I believe it
is sound,--still sound, though on fire; and so, to help you quench its
burning, I give you my pledge to be from this day a stranger to your
sweet wife. And now will you do something for me, to prove that your
soul is sound and is going to stay sound? It shall be the least I can
ask in good faith to the world we live in."
"What is it?" asked Arthur. There was no capitulation in his face or his
voice.
"I want you to make to Isabel a full retraction and explanation of every
falsehood you have uttered to her or to me in this matter." Leonard was
pale again; Arthur burned red a moment, and then turned paler than
Leonard.
"You fiend!" gasped the husband. "I am to exalt you, and abase myself,
to her?"
"No. No, Arthur. Women are strange; every chance is that in her eyes I
shall be abased." The speaker went whiter than ever.
"But be that as it may, you shall have lifted your soul out of the mire.
You must do it, Arthur; don't you see you must?"
Arthur sank into the chair at his side. He seemed to have guessed what
Leonard was keeping unsaid. A moisture of anguish stood on his brow.
Yet--
[Illustration: "Arthur Winslow, I give you five minutes."]
"I will die before I will do it," he said.
Leonard drew forth the letter, and then his watch. "Arthur Winslow, I
give you five minutes. If you don't make me that promise in that time, I
shall this day show this letter to your bishop."
The rector sat clenching his fingers and spreading them again, and
staring at the table.
A bead of sweat, then a second, and then a third started down his
forehead.
Presently he clutched the board, drew himself to his feet, and turned to
leave the chair, but fell across its arms, slid heavily from them, and
with one rude thump and then another lay unconscious on the floor.
Leonard sprang round the table, but when he would have lifted the fallen
head it was in the arms of Isabel, and her dilated eyes were on him in a
look of passionate aversion.
"Ring!" she cried. "Ring for Sarah--and go!
"No! stop! don't ring! he's coming to! Only go! go quickly and forever!
Say not a word,--oh, not a word! I heard it all! Despise me too, for I
listened at the door!
"Oh, my husband! Arthur, look at me, Arthur. Look, Arthur; it's your
Isabel. Oh, Arthur, my husband, my husband!"