|This is the last, probably, of those "letters never sent," which may
reach you one day; when or how, we know not. All that is, is best.
You say you think it advisable that there should be an accurate written
record of all that passed between your family and myself on the
final day of parting, in order that no further conduct of mine may be
misconstrued or misjudged. Be it so. My good name is worth preserving;
for it must never be any disgrace to you that Max Urquhart loved you.
Since this record is to be minute and literal, perhaps it will be better
I should give it impersonally, as a statement rather than a letter.
On February 9th, 1857, I went to Rockmount, to see Theodora Johnston,
for the first time after she was aware that I had, long ago, taken the
life of her half-brother, Henry Johnston, not intentionally, but in a
fit of drunken rage. I came, simply to look at her dear face once more,
and to ask her in what way her father would best bear the shock of this
confession of mine, before I took the second step of surrendering myself
to justice, or of making atonement in any other way that Mr. Johnston
might choose. To him and his family my life was owed, and I left them to
dispose of it or of me in any manner they thought best.
With these intentions, I went to Theodora. I knew her well. I felt sure
she would pity me, that she would not refuse me her forgiveness, before
our eternal separation; that though the blood upon my hands was half
her own, she would not judge me the less justly, or mercifully, or
Christianly. As to a Christian woman, I came to her--as I had come once
before, in a question of conscience; also, as to the woman who had been
my friend, with all the rights and honours of that name, before she
became to me anything more and dearer. And I was thankful that the
lesser tie had been included in the greater, so that both need not be
entirely swept away and disannulled.
I found not only my friend, upon whom, above all others, I could depend,
but my own, my love, the woman above all women who was mine; who, loving
me before this blow fell, clung to me still, and believing that God
Himself had joined us together suffered nothing to put us asunder.
How she made me comprehend this I shall not relate, as it concerns
ourselves alone. When at last I knelt by her and kissed her blessed
hands--my saint! and yet all woman, and all my own--I felt that my sin
was covered, that the All-merciful had had mercy upon me. That while,
all these years, I had followed miserably my own method of atonement,
denying myself all life's joys, and cloaking myself with every possible
ray of righteousness I could find, He had suddenly led me by another
way, sending this child's love, first to comfort and then, to smite me,
that, being utterly bruised, broken, and humbled, I might be made whole.
Now, for the first time, I felt like a man to whom there is a
possibility of being made whole. Her father might hunt me to death, the
law might lay hold on me, the fair reputation under which I had shielded
myself might be torn and scattered to the winds; but for all that I was
safe, I was myself, the true Max Urquhart, a grievous sinner; yet no
longer unforgiven or hopeless.
"_I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance_."
That line struck home. Oh, that I could strike it home to every
miserable heart as it went to mine. Oh! that I could carry into the
utmost corners of the earth the message, the gospel which Dallas
believed in, the only one which has power enough for the redemption of
this sorrowful world--the gospel of the forgiveness and remission of
sins.
While she talked to me--this my saint, Theodora--Dallas himself might
have spoken, apostle-like, through her lips. She said, when I listened
in wonder to the clearness of some of her arguments, that she hardly
knew how they had come into her mind, they seemed to come of themselves;
but they were there, and she was _sure_ they were true. She was sure,
she added, reverently, that if the Christ of Nazareth were to pass by
Rockmount door this day, the only word He would say unto me, after all I
had done, would be:--"Thy sins are forgiven thee--rise up and walk."
And I did so. I went out of the house an altered man. My burthen of
years had been lifted off me for ever and ever. I understood something
of what is meant by being "born again." I could dimly guess at what they
must have felt-who sat at the Divine feet, clothed and in their right
mind, or who, across the sunny plains of Galilee, leaped, and walked,
and ran, praising God.
I crossed the moorland, walking erect, with eyes fixed on the blue sky,
my heart tender and young as a child's. I even stopped, child-like, to
pluck a stray primrose under a tree in a lane, which had peeped out, as
if it wished to investigate how soon spring would come. It seemed to me
so pretty--I might never have seen a primrose since I was a boy.
Let me relate the entire truth--she wishes it. Strange as it may appear,
though hour by hour brought nearer the time when I had fixed to be at
Rockmount, to confess unto a father that I had been the slayer of his
only son--still that day was not an unhappy day. I spent it chiefly out
of doors on the moorlands, near a way-side public-house, where I had
lodged some nights, drinking in large draughts of the beauty of this
external world, and feeling even outer life sweet, though nothing to
that renewed life which I now should never lose again. Never--even if
I had to go next day to prison and trial, and stand before the world
a convicted homicide. Nay, I believe I could have mounted the scaffold
amidst those gaping thousands that were once my terror, and die
peacefully in spite of them, feeling no longer either guilty or afraid.
So much for myself, which will explain a good deal that followed in the
interview which I have now to relate.
Theodora had wished to save me by herself, explaining all to her father;
but I would not allow this, and at length she yielded. However, things
fell out differently from both our intentions: he learned it first from
his daughter Penelope. The moment I entered his study I was certain Mr.
Johnston knew.
Let no sinner, however healed, deceive himself that his wound will never
smart again. He is not instantly made a new man of, whole and sound: he
must grow gradually, even through many a returning pang, into health
and cure. If anyone thinks I could stand in the presence of that old man
without an anguish sharp as death, which made me for the moment wish I
had never been born, he is mistaken.
But alleviations came. The first was to see the old man sitting there
alive and well, though evidently fully aware of the truth, and having
been so for some time, for his countenance was composed, his tea was
placed beside him on the table, and there was an open Bible before him,
in which he had been reading. His voice, too, had nothing unnatural
or alarming in it, as, without looking at me, he bade the maid-servant
"give Doctor Urquhart a chair and say, if anyone interrupted, that we
were particularly engaged." So the door was shut upon us, leaving us
face to face.
But it was not long before he raised his eyes to him. It is enough, once
in a lifetime, to have borne such a look.
"Mr. Johnston,"--but he shut his ears.
"Do not speak," he said; "what you have come to tell me I know already.
My daughter told me this morning. And I have been trying ever since to
find out what my church says to the shedder of blood; what she would
teach a father to say to the murderer of his child. My Harry, my only
son! And you murdered him!"
Let the words which followed be sacred. If in some degree they were
unjust, and overstepped the truth, let me not dare to murmur. I believe
the curses he heaped upon me in his own words and those of the Holy
Book, will not come, for its other and diviner words, which his daughter
taught me, stand as a shield between me and him. I repeated them to
myself in my silence, and so I was able to endure.
When he paused and commanded me to speak, I answered only a few words,
namely, that I was here to offer my life for his son's life; that he
might do with me what he would.
"Which means, that I should give you up to justice, have you tried,
condemned, executed. You, Doctor Urquhart, whom the world thinks so well
of. I might live to see you hanged."
His eyes glared, his whole frame was convulsed. I entreated him to
calm himself, for his own health's sake, and the sake of his children.
"Yes, I will. Old as I am, this shall not kill me. I will live to exact
retribution. My boy, my poor murdered Harry--murdered--murdered."
He kept repeating and dwelling on the word, till at length I said:--
"If you know the whole truth, you must be aware that I had no intention
to murder him."
"What, you extenuate? You wish to escape? But you shall not. I will have
you arrested now, in this very house."
"Be it so, then."
And I sat down.
So, the end had come. Life, and all its hopes, all its work, were over
for me. I saw, as in a second of time, everything that was coming--the
trial, the conviction, the newspaper clatter over my name, my ill deeds
exaggerated, my good deeds pointed at with the finger of scorn, which
perhaps was the keenest agony of all--save one.
"Theodora!"
Whether I uttered her name, or only thought it, I cannot tell. However,
it brought her. I felt she was in the room, though she stood by her
sister's side, and did not approach me.
Again, I repeat, let no man say that sin does not bring its wages, which
_must_ be paid. Whosoever doubts it, I would he could sit as I sat,
watching the faces of father and daughters, and thinking of the dead
face which lay against my knee, that midnight, on Salisbury plain.
"Children," I heard Mr. Johnston saying, "I have sent for you to be my
witnesses in what I am about to do. Not out of personal revenge--which
were unbecoming a clergyman--but because God and man exact retribution
for blood. There is the man who murdered Harry. Though he were the
best friend I ever had, though I esteemed him ever so much, which I
did,--still, discovering this, I must have retribution.
"How, father?" Not _her_ voice, but her sister's. .
Let me do full justice to Penelope Johnston. Though it was she who told
my secret to her father, she did it out of no malice. As I afterwards
learnt, chance led their conversation into such a channel, that she
could only escape betraying the truth by a direct lie. And with all her
harshnesses, the prominent feature of her character is its truthfulness,
or rather its abhorrence of falsehood. Nay, her fierce scorn of any kind
of duplicity is such, that she confounds the crime with the criminal,
and, once deceived, never can forgive,--as in the matter of Lydia
Cartwright, my acquaintance with which gave me this insight into Miss
Johnston's peculiarity.
Thus, though it fell to her lot to betray my confession, I doubt not she
did so with most literal accuracy; acting towards me neither as a friend
nor foe, but simply as a relater of facts. Nor was there any personal
enmity towards me in her question to her father.
It startled him a little.
"How did you say? By the law, I conclude. There is no other way."
"And if so, what will be the result? I mean what will be done to him?"
"I cannot tell--how should I?"
"Perhaps I can; for I have thought over and studied the question all
day," answered Miss Johnston, still in the same cold, clear, impartial
voice. "He will be tried, of course. I find from your 'Taylor on
Evidence,' father, that a man can be tried and convicted, solely on his
own confession. But in this case, there being no corroborating proof,
and all having happened so long ago, it will scarcely prove a
capital crime. I believe no jury would give a stronger verdict than
manslaughter. He will be imprisoned, or transported beyond seas; where,
with his good character, he will soon work his liberty, and start afresh
in another country, in spite of us. This, I think, is the common-sense
view of the matter."
Astonished as Mr. Johnston looked, he made no reply.
His daughter continued:--
"And for this, you and we shall have the credit of having had arrested
in our own house, a man who threw himself on our mercy, who, though he
concealed, never denied his guilt; who never deceived us in any way.
The moment he discovered the whole truth, dreadful as it was, he never
shirked it, nor hid it from us; but told us outright, risking all the
consequences. A man, too, against whom, in his whole life, we can prove
but this one crime."
"What, do you take his part?"
"No," she said; "I wish he had died before he set foot in this
house--for I remember Harry. But I see also that after all this lapse of
years Harry is not the only person whom we ought to remember."
"I remember nothing but the words of this Book," cried the old man,
letting his hand drop heavily upon it. "'Whoso sheddeth man's blood,
by man shall his blood be shed.' What have you to say for yourself,
_murderer?_"
All this time, faithful to her promise to me, she had not
interfered--she, my love, who loved me; but when she heard him call me
_that_, she shivered all over, and looked towards me. A pitiful,
entreating look, but, thank God, there was no doubt in it--not the
shadow of change. It nerved me to reply, what I will here record, by her
desire and for her sake.
"Mr. Johnston, I have this to say. It is written,--'Whoso hateth his
brother is a murderer,' and in that sense, I am one,--for I did hate him
at the time; but I never meant to kill him--and the moment afterwards I
would have given my life for his. If now, my death could restore him to
you, alive again, how willingly I would die."
"Die, and face your Maker? an unpardoned man-slayer, a lost soul?"
"Whether I live or die," said I, humbly, "I trust my soul is not lost. I
have been very guilty; but I believe in One who brought to every sinner
on earth the gospel of repentance and remission of sins."
At this, burst out the anathema--not merely of the father, but the
clergyman,--who mingled the Jewish doctrine of retributive vengeance
during this life with the Christian belief of rewards and punishments
after death, and confounded the Mosaic gehenna with the Calvinistic
hell. I will not record all this--it was very terrible; but he only
spoke as he believed, and as many earnest Christians do believe. I
think, in all humility, that the Master Himself preached a different
gospel.
I saw it, shining out of her eyes--my angel of peace and pardon. O
Thou, from whom all love comes, was it impious if the love of this Thy
creature towards one so wretched, should come to me like an assurance of
Thine?
At length her father ceased speaking--took up a pen and began hastily
writing. Miss Johnston went and looked over his shoulder.
"Papa, if that is a warrant you are making-out, better think twice
about it; for, as a magistrate, you cannot retract. Should you send Dr.
Urquhart to trial, you must be prepared for the whole truth to come out.
He must tell it; or, if he calls Dora and me as witnesses--she having
already his written confession in full--_we_ must."
"You must tell--what?"
"The provocation Doctor Urquhart received--how Harry enticed him, a lad
of nineteen, to drink--made him mad, and taunted him. Everything will be
made public--how Harry was so degraded that from the hour of his death
we were thankful to forget that he had ever existed--how he died as he
had lived--a boaster, a coward, spunging upon any one from whom he could
get money, using his talents only to his shame, devoid of one spark of
honesty, honour, and generosity. It is shocking to have to say this of
one's own brother; but, father, you know it is the truth--and, as such,
it must be told."
Amazed--I listened to her--this eldest sister, who I knew disliked me.
Her father seemed equally surprised,--until, at length, her arguments
apparently struck him with uneasiness.
"Have you any motive in arguing thus?" said he, hurriedly and not
without agitation; "why do you do it, Penelope!"
"A little, on my own account, though the great scandal and publicity
will not much affect Francis and me--we shall soon be out of England.
But for the family's sake,--for Harry's sake,--when all his
wickednesses and our miseries have been safely covered up these twenty
years--consider, father!"
She stung him deeper than she knew. I had guessed it before, when I was
almost a stranger to him--but now the whole history of that old man's
life was betrayed in one groan, which burst from the very depth of the
father's soul.
"Eli--the priest of the Lord--his sons made themselves vile and he
restrained them not. Therefore they died in one day, both of them.
It was the will of the Lord."
The respectful silence which ensued, no one dared to break.
He broke it himself at last, pointing to the door. "Go! murderer, or
man-slayer, or whatever you are, you must go free. Moreover, I must have
your promise--no, your oath--that the secret you have kept so long, you
will now keep for ever."
"Sir," I said; but he stopped me fiercely.
"No hesitations--no explanations--I will have none and give none. As you
said, your life is mine--to do with it as I choose. Better you should go
unpunished, than that I and mine should be disgraced. Obey me. Promise."
I did.
Thus, in another and still stranger way, my resolutions were broken, my
fate was decided for me, and I have to keep this secret unconfessed to
the end.
"Now, go. Put half the earth between us if you can--only go."
Again I turned to obey. Blind obedience seemed the only duty left me.
I might even have quitted the house, with a feeling of total
irresponsibility and indifference to all things, had it not been for a
low cry which I heard, as in a dream.
So did her father. "Dora--I had forgotten. There was some sort of fancy
between you and Dora. Daughter, bid him farewell, and let him go."
Then she said--my love said, in her own soft, distinct voice: "No, papa,
I never mean to bid him farewell--that is, finally--never as long as I
live."
Her father and sister were both so astounded, that at first they did not
interrupt her, but let her speak on.
"I belonged to Max before all this happened. If it had happened a year
hence, when I was his wife, it would not have broken our marriage. It
ought not now. When any two people are to one another what we are, they
are as good as married; and they have no right to part, no more than man
and wife have, unless either grows wicked, or both change. I never mean
to part from Max Urquhart."
She spoke meekly, standing with hands folded and head drooping; but as
still and steadfast as a rock. My darling--my darling!
Steadfast! She had need to he. What she bore during the next few minutes
she would not wish me to repeat, I feel sure.
She knows it, and so do I. She knows also that every stab with which I
then saw her wounded for my sake, is counted in my heart, as a debt to
be paid one day, if between those who love there can be any debts at
all. She says not. Yet, if ever she is my wife.--People talk of dying
for a woman's sake--but to live--live for her with the whole of one's
being--to work for her, to sustain and cheer her--to fill her daily
existence with tenderness and care--if ever she is my wife, she will
find out what I mean.
After saying all he well could say, Mr. Johnston asked her how she dared
think of me--me, laden with her brother's blood and her father's curse.
She turned deadly pale, but never faltered: "The curse causeless shall
not come," she said, "For the blood upon his hand, whether it were
Harry's or a stranger's, makes no difference; it is washed out. He has
repented long ago. If God has forgiven him, and helped him to be what
he is, and lead the life he has led all these years, why should I not
forgive him? And if I forgive, why not love him?--and if I love him, why
break my promise, and refuse to marry him?"
"Do you mean, then, to marry him?" said her sister.
"Some day--if he wishes it--yes!"
From this time, I myself hardly remember what passed; I can only see
her standing there, her sweet face white as death, making no moan, and
answering nothing to any accusations that were heaped upon her, except
when she was commanded to give me up, entirely and for ever and ever.
"I cannot, father. I have no right to do it. I belong to him; he is my
husband."
At last, Miss Johnston said to me--rather gently than not, for her: "I
think, Doctor Urquhart, you had better go."
My love looked towards me, and afterwards at her poor father; she too
said, "Yes, Max, go." And then they wanted her to promise she would
never see me, nor write to me; but she refused.
"Father, I will not marry him for ever so long, if you choose--but I
cannot forsake him. I must write to him. I am his very own, and he has
only me. Oh, papa, think of yourself and my mother." And she sobbed at
his knees.
He must have thought of Harry's mother, not hers, for this exclamation
only hardened him.
Then Theodora rose, and gave me her little hand.--"It can hold firm, you
will find. You have my promise. But whether or no, it would have been
all the same. No love is worth having that could not, with or without a
promise, keep true till death. You may trust me. Now, goodbye. Good-bye,
my Max."
With that one clasp of the hand, that one look into her fond, faithful
eyes, we parted. I have never seen her since.
*****
This statement, which is as accurate as I can make it, except in the
case of those voluntary omissions which I believe you yourself would
have desired, I here seal up, to be delivered to you with those other
letters in case I should die while you are still Theodora Johnston.
I have also made my will, leaving you all my effects, and appointing you
my sole executrix; putting you, in short, in exactly the same position
as if you had been my wife. This is best, in order that by no chance
should the secret ooze out through any guesses of any person not
connected with your family; also because I think it is what you would
wish yourself. You said truly, I have only you.
Another word, which I do not name in my ordinary letters, lest I might
grieve you by what may prove to be only a fancy of mine.
Sometimes, in the hard work of this my life here, I begin to feel that I
am no longer a young man, and that the reaction after the great strain,
mental and bodily, of the last few months, has left me not so strong as
I used to be. Not that I think I am about to die, far from it. I have
a good constitution, which has worn well yet, and may wear on for some
time, though not for ever, and I am nearly fifteen years older than you.
It is very possible that before any change can come, I may leave you,
never a wife, and yet a widow. Possible, among the numerous fatalities
of life, that we may never be married--never even see one another again.
Sometimes, when I see two young people married and happy, taking it all
as a matter of course, scarcely even recognising it as happiness---just
like Mr. and Mrs. Treherne, who hunted me out lately, and insisted on my
visiting them--I think of you and me, and it seems very bitter, and I
look on the future with less faith than fear. It might not be so if
I could see you now and then--but oftentimes this absence feels like
death.
Theodora, if I should die before we are married, without any chance of
writing down my last words, take them here.
No, they will not come. I can but crush my lips upon this paper--only
thy name, not thee, and call thee "my love, my love!" Remember, I loved
thee--all my soul was full of the love of thee. It made life happy,
earth beautiful, and Heaven nearer. It was with me day and night, in
work or rest--as much a part of me as the hand I write with, or the
breath I draw. I never thought of myself, but of "us." I never prayed
but I prayed for two. Love, my love, so many miles away--O my God, why
not grant me a little happiness before I die!
Yet, as once I wrote before, and as she says always in all things, _Thy
will be done._