|My dear Theodora,
I did not write, because I could not. In some states of mind nothing
seems possible to a man but silence. Forgive me, my love, my comfort and
joy.
I have suffered much, but it is over now, at least the suspense of it;
and I can tell you all, with the calmness that I myself now feel.
You are right; we love one another; we need not be afraid of any
tribulation.
Before entering on my affairs, let me answer your letter--all but its
last word, "Come!" My other self, my better conscience, will herself
answer that.
The substance of what you tell me, I already know. Francis Charteris
came to me on Sunday week, and asked for Lydia. They were married two
days after--I gave the bride away. Since then I have drank tea with them
at his lodging, which, poor as it is, has already the cheerful comfort
of a home with a woman in it, and that woman a wife.
I left them--Mr. Charteris sitting by the fire with his boy on his knee;
he seems passionately fond of the little scapegrace, who is, as you
said, his very picture. But more than once I caught his eyes following
Lydia with a wistful, grateful tenderness.
"The most sensible practical girl imaginable," he said, during her
momentary absence from the room; "and she knows all my ways, and is so
patient with them. 'A poor wench,' as Shakspere hath it. 'A poor wench,
sir, but mine own!'"
For her, she busied herself about house-matters, humble and silent,
except when her husband spoke to her, and then her whole face
brightened. Poor Lydia! None familiar with her story are likely to see
much of her again; Mr. Charteris seems to wish, and for very natural
reasons, that they should begin the world entirely afresh; but we may
fairly believe one thing concerning her as concerning another poor
sinner,--"_Her sins, which were many, are forgiven, for she loved
much_."
After I returned from them, I found your letter. It made me cease to
feel what I have often felt of late, as if hope were knocking at every
door except mine.
I told you once, never to be ashamed of showing me that you love me. Do
not be; such love is a woman's glory, and a man's salvation.
Let me now say what is to be said about myself, beginning at the
beginning.
I mentioned to you once that I had here a good many enemies, but that I
should soon live them down; which, for some time, I hoped and
believed, and still believe that it would have been so, under ordinary
circumstances.
I have ever held that truth is stronger than falsehood, that an honest
man has but to sit still, let the storm blow over, and bide his time.
It does not shake this doctrine that things have fallen out differently
with me.
For some time I had seen the cloud gathering; caught evil reports flying
about; noticed that in society or in public meetings, now and then an
acquaintance gave me the "cold shoulder." Also, what troubled me more,
for it was a hindrance felt daily, my influence and authority in the
gaol did not seem quite what they used to be. I met no tangible affront,
certainly, and all was tolerably smooth sailing, till I had to find
fault, and then, as you know, a feather will show which way the wind
blows!
It was a new experience, for, at the worst of times, in camp or
hospital, my poor fellows always loved me--I found it hard.
More scurrilous newspaper paragraphs, the last and least obnoxious of
which I sent you lest you might hear of it in some other way, followed
those proceedings of mine concerning reformatories. Two articles--the
titles, "Physician, heal thyself," and "Set a thief to catch a thief,"
will give you an idea of their tenor--went so far as to be actionable
libels. Several persons here, our chaplain especially, urged me to take
legal proceedings in defence of my character, but I declined.
One day, arguing the point, the chaplain pressed me for my reasons,
which I gave him, and will give you, for I have since had only too much
occasion to remember them literally.
I said I had always had an instinctive dislike and dread of the law;
that a man was good for little if he could not defend himself by any
better weapons than the verdict of an ignorant jury, and a specious,
sometimes lying, barrister's tongue.
The old clergyman, alarmed, "hoped I was not a duellist," at which I
only smiled. It never occurred to me to take the trouble of denying
any such ridiculous purpose. I knew not how, when once the ball is set
rolling against a man, his lightest words are made to gather weight and
meaning, his very looks are brought in judgment upon him. It is the way
of the world.
You see I can moralize, a sign that I am recovering myself; I think,
with the relief of telling all out to you.
"But," reasoned the chaplain, "when a man is innocent, why should he not
declare it? Why sit tamely under calumny? It is unwise,--nay, unsafe.
You are almost a stranger here, and we in the provinces like to find out
everything about everybody. If I might suggest," and he apologized for
what he called the friendly impertinence, "why not be a little less
modest, a little more free with your personal history, which must have a
remarkable one, and let some friend, in a quiet, delicate way, see that
the truth is as widely disseminated as the slander? If you will trust
me--"
"I could not choose a better pleader," said I, gratefully; "but it is
impossible."
"How so? A man like you can have nothing to dread--nothing to conceal."
I said again, all I could find words to say:--
"It is impossible."
He urged no more, but I soon felt painfully certain that some
involuntary distrust lurked in the good man's mind, and though he
continued the same to me in all our business relations, a cloud came
over our private intercourse, which was never removed.
About this time another incident occurred; You know I have a little
friend here, the governor's motherless daughter, a bonnie wee child whom
I meet in the garden sometimes, where we water her flowers, and have
long chats about birds, beasts, and the wonders of foreign parts. I
even have given a present or two to this, my child-sweetheart. Are you
jealous? She has your eyes!
Well, one day when I called Lucy, she came to me slowly, with a shy,
sad countenance; and I found out after some pains, that her nurse had
desired her not to play with Doctor Urquhart again, because he was
"naughty."
Doctor Urquhart smilingly inquired what he had done?
The child hesitated.
"Nurse does not exactly know, but she says it is something very
wicked--as wicked as anything done by the bad people in here. But it
isn't true--tell Lucy it isn't true?"
It was hard to put aside the little loving face, but I saw the nurse
coming. Not an ill-meaning body, but one whom I knew for as arrant
a gossip as any about this place. Her comments on myself troubled me
little; I concluded it was but the result of that newspaper tattle,
against which I was gradually growing hardened; nevertheless, I thought
it best just to say that I had heard with much surprise what she had
been telling Miss Lucy.
"Children and fools speak truth," said the woman saucily.
"Then you ought to be the more careful that children always hear the
truth." And I insisted upon her repeating all the ridiculous tales she
had been circulating about me.
When, with difficulty, I got the facts out of her, they were not what I
expected, but these: Somebody in the gaol had told somebody else how Dr.
Urquhart had been in former days such an abandoned character, that still
his evil conscience always drove him among criminals; made him haunt
gaols, prisons, reformatories, and take an interest in every form of
vice. Nay, people had heard me say--and truly they might!--_apropos_ to
a late hanging at Kirkdale--that I had sympathy even for a murderer.
I listened--you will imagine how--to all this.
For an instant I was overwhelmed; I felt as if God had forsaken me; as
if His mercy were a delusion; His punishments never-ending; His justice
never satisfied. Despite my promise to your father, I might, in some
fatal way, have betrayed myself, even on the spot, had I not heard the
little girl saying, with a sob, almost--poor pet!--
"For shame, nurse! Doctor Urquhart isn't a wicked man; Lucy loves him."
And I remembered you.
"My child," I said, in a whisper, "we are all wicked; but we may all
be forgiven; I trust God has forgiven me;" and I walked away without
another word.
But since then I have thought it best to avoid the governor's garden;
and it has cost me more pain than you would imagine--the contriving
always to pass at a distance, so as to get only a nod and smile, which
cannot harm her, from little Lucy.
About this time--it might be two or three days after, for out of
work-hours I little noticed how time passed--an unpleasant circumstance
occurred with Lucy's father.
I must have told you of him; for he is a remarkable man--young still,
and well-looking; with manners like his features, hard as iron, though
delicate and polished as steel. He seems born to be the ruler of
criminals. Brutality, meanness, or injustice would be impossible to him.
Likewise, another thing--mercy.
It was on this point that he and I had our difference.
We met in the east ward, when he pointed out to me, in passing, the
announcement on the centre slate of "a boy to be whipped."
It seems ridiculous, but the words sickened me. For I knew the boy, knew
also his offence; and that such a punishment would be the first step
towards converting a mere headstrong lad, sent here for a street row,
into, a hardened ruffian. I pleaded for him strongly.
The governor listened--polite, but inflexible.
I went on speaking with unusual warmth; you know my horror of these
floggings; you know, too, my opinion on the system of punishment, viewed
as mere punishment, with no ulterior aim at reformation. I believe it
is only our blinded human interpretation of things spiritual, which
transforms the immutable law that evil is its own avenger and that
the wrath of God against sin must be as everlasting as His pity for
sinners--into the doctrine of eternal torment, the worm that dieth not,
and the fire that is never quenched.
The governor heard all I had to say; then, politely always, regretted
that it was impossible either to grant my request, or release me from my
duty.
"There is, however, one course which I may suggest to Doctor Urquhart,
considering his very peculiar opinions, and his known sympathy with
criminals. Do you not think, it might be more agreeable to you to
resign?"
The words were nothing; but as he fixed on me that keen eye, which,
he boasts can, without need of judge or jury detect a man's guilt or
innocence, I felt convinced that with him too my good name was gone. It
was no longer a battle with mere side-winds of slander--the storm had
begun.
I might have sunk like a coward, if there were only myself to be crushed
under it. As it was, I looked the governor in the face.
"Have you any special motive for this suggestion?"
"I have stated it."
"Then allow me to state, that whatever my opinions may be, so long as my
services are useful here, I have not the slightest wish or intention of
resigning."
He bowed, and we parted.
The boy was flogged. I said to him, "Bear it; better confess,"--as he
had done--"confess and be punished now. It will then be over." And I
hope, by the grateful look of the poor young wretch, that with the pain,
the punishment was over; that my pity helped him to endure it, so that
it did not harden him, but, with a little help, he may become an honest
lad yet.
When I left him in his cell, I rather envied him.
It now became necessary to look to my own affairs, and discover if
possible, all that report alleged against me--false or true--as well as
the originator of these statements. Him I at last by the merest chance
discovered.
My little lady, with her quick, warm feelings, must learn to forgive, as
I have long ago forgiven. It was Mr. Francis Charteris.
I believe still, it was less from malice premeditated, than from a mere
propensity for talking, and that looseness and inaccuracy of speech
which he always had--that he, when idling away his time in the debtor's
ward of this gaol, repeated, probably with extempore additions, what
your sister Penelope once mentioned to him concerning me--namely, that I
was once about to be married, when the lady's father discovered a crime
I had committed in my youth--whether dishonesty, duelling, seduction, or
what, he could not say--but it was something absolutely unpardonable
by an honourable man, and the marriage was forbidden. On this, all the
reports against me had been grounded.
After hearing this story, which one of the turnkeys whose children were
down with fever, told me while watching by their bedside, begging my
pardon for doing it, honest man! I went and took a long walk down the
Waterloo shore, to calm myself, and consider my position. For I knew it
was in vain to struggle any more. I was ruined.
An innocent man might have fought on; how any one, with a clear
conscience, is ever conquered by slander, or afraid of it, I cannot
understand. With a clean heart, and truth on his tongue, a man ought to
be as bold as a lion. I should have been; but--My love, you know.
This Waterloo shore has always been a favourite haunt of mine. You once
said, you should like to live by the sea; and I have never heard the
ripple of the tide without thinking of you--never seen the little
children playing about and digging on the sands without thinking--God
help me! if one keeps silence, it is not because one does not feel the
knife.
"Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him?"
Let me stop. I will not pain you, my love, more than I can help.
Besides, as I told you, the worst of my suffering is ended.
I believe I must have sat till night-fall among the sand-hills by the
shore. For years to come, if I live so long, I shall see as clear and
also as unreal as a painting--that level sea-line, along which moved
the small white silent ships, and the steamers, with their humming
paddle-wheels and their trailing thread of smoke, dropping one after the
other into what some one of your favourite poets, my child, calls "the
under world." There seemed a great weight on my head--a weariness all
over me. I did not feel anything much, after the first half-hour; except
a longing to see your little face once again, and then, if it were
God's will, to lie down and die, somewhere near you, quietly, giving no
trouble to you or to any one any more. You will remember, I was not in
my usual health, and had had extra hard work, for some little time.
Well, my dear one, this is enough about myself, that day. I went home
and fell into harness as usual; there was nothing to be done but to
wait till the storm burst, and I wished for many reasons to retain my
situation at the gaol as long as possible.
But it was a difficult time; rising to each day's duty, with total
uncertainty of what might happen before night: and, duty done,
struggling against a depression such as I have not known for these many
years. In the midst of it came your dear letters--cheerful, loving,
contented--unwontedly contented they seemed to me. I could not answer
them, for to have written in a false strain was impossible, and to tell
you everything seemed equally so. I said to myself, "No, poor child! she
will learn all soon enough. Let her be happy while she can."
I was wrong; I was unjust to you and to myself. From the hour you gave
me your love, I owed it to us both to give you my full confidence, as
much as if you were my wife. I had no right to wound your dear heart
by keeping back from it any sorrows of mine. Forgive me, and forgive
something else, which, I now see, was crueller still.
Theodora, I wished many times that you were free; that I had never bound
you to my hard lot, but kept silence and left you to forget me, to love
some one else better than me--pardon, pardon!
For I was once actually on the point of writing to you, saying this,
when I remembered something you had said long ago,--that whether or no
we were ever married you were glad we had been betrothed--that so far we
might always be a help and comfort to one another. For, you added, when
I was blaming myself, and talking as men do of "honour," and "pride"--to
have left you free when you were not free, would have given you all the
cares of love, with neither its rights, nor duties, nor sweetnesses;
and this might--you did not say it would--but it might have broken your
heart.
So in my bitter strait I trusted that pure heart, whose instinct, I
felt, was truer than all my wisdom. I did not write the letter, but at
the same time, as I have told you, it was impossible to write any other,
even a single line.
Your last letter came. Happily, it reached me the very morning when the
crisis which I had been for weeks expecting, occurred. I had it in my
pocket all the time I stood in that room before those men,--but I had
best relate from the beginning.
You are aware that any complaints respecting the officers of this gaol,
or questions concerning its internal management, are laid before the
visiting justices. Thus, after the governor's hint, on every board day,
I prepared myself for a summons. At length it came; ostensibly for a
very trivial matter--some relaxation of discipline which I had ordered
and been counteracted in. But my conduct had never been called into
question before, and I knew what it implied. The very form of it--"The
governor's compliments, and he requests Doctor Urquhart's attendance in
the board-room;"--instead of "Doctor, come up to my room and talk the
matter over," was sufficient indication of what was impending.
I found present, besides the governor and chaplain, an unusual number of
magistrates. These, who are not always or necessarily gentlemen, stared
at me as if I had been some strange beast, all the time I was giving
my brief evidence about the breach of regulations complained of. It was
soon settled, for I had been careful to keep within the letter of
the law, and I made a motion to take leave, when one of the justices
requested me to "wait a bit, they hadn't done with me yet."
These sort of men, low-born--not that that is any disgrace, but a glory,
unless accompanied with a low nature--and "dressed in a little brief
authority," one often meets with here; I was well used to deal with,
them, and to their dealings with the like of me--a poor professional,
whose annual income was little more than they would expend, carelessly,
upon one of their splendid "feeds." But, until lately, among my co-mates
in office, I had been both friendly and popular. Now, they took their
tone from the rest, and even the governor and-the chaplain preserved
towards me a rigid silence. You do not know our old mess phrase of
being "sent to Coventry." If you did, you would understand how those ten
minutes that, according to my orders, I sat aloof from the board, while
other business was proceeding, were not the pleasantest possible.
Men amongst men grow hard, are liable to evil passions, fits of pride,
hatred, and revenge, that are probably unfamiliar to you sweet women. It
was well I had your letter in my pocket. Besides, there is something
in coming to the crisis of a great misfortune which braces up a man's
nerves to meet it. So, when the governor, turning round in his always
courteous tone, said the board requested a few minutes' conversation
with me, I could rise and stand steady, to meet whatever shape of hard
fortune lay before me.
The governor, like most men of non-intrusive but iron will, who have
both temper and feelings perfectly under control, has a very strong
influence wherever he goes. It was he who opened and carried on with me,
what he politely termed, a "little conversation."
"These difficulties," continued he, after referring to the dismissed
complaint of my straining the rules of the gaol to their utmost limit,
from my "sympathy with criminals," "these unpleasantnesses, Doctor
Urquhart, will, I fear, be always occurring. Have you reconsidered the
hint I gave to you, some little time ago?"
I answered that it was rarely my habit to take hints; I preferred having
all things spoken right out.
"Such candour is creditable, though not always possible or advisable. I
should have been exceedingly glad if you had saved me from what I feel
to be my duty, however painful, namely, to repeat my private suggestion
publicly."
"You mean that I should tender my resignation."
"Excuse my saying--and the board agrees with me--that such a step seems
desirable, for many reasons."
I waited, and then asked for those reasons.
"Doctor Urquhart must surely be aware of them."
A man is not bound to rush madly into his ruin. I determined to die
fighting, at any rate. I said, addressing the board:--
"Gentlemen, I am not aware of having conducted myself in any manner that
unfits me for being surgeon to this gaol. Any slight differences between
the governor and myself, are mere matters of opinion, which signify
little, so long as neither trenches on the other's authority, and both
are amenable to the regulations of the establishment. If you have any
cause of complaint against me, state it, reprove or dismiss me, it is
your right; but no one has a right without just grounds to request me to
resign."
The governor, even through that handsome, impassive, masked countenance
of his, looked annoyed. For an instant his hard manner dropped into the
old friendliness, even as when, in the first few weeks after his wife's
death, he and I used to sit playing chess together of evenings, with
little Lucy between us.
"Doctor, why will you misapprehend me? It is for your own sake that I
wish, before the matter is opened up further, you should resign your
post."
After a moment's consideration, I requested him to explain himself more
clearly.
One of the magistrates here cried out with a laugh:--"Come, come,
doctor, no shamming. You are the town's talk." And another suggested
that "Brown had better mind his P's and Q's; there were such things as
actions for libel."
I replied if the gentlemen referred to the scurrilous allegations
against me which had appeared in print, they might speak without fear; I
had no intention of prosecuting for libel. This silenced them a moment,
and then the first magistrate said:--
"Give a dog a bad name and hang him; but surely, doctor, you can't be
aware what a very bad name you have somehow got in these parts, or you
would have been more eager to draw your neck out of the halter in time.
Why, bless my soul, man alive, do you know what folk make you out to
be?"
"This discussion is growing foreign to the matter in hand," interrupted
the governor, who I felt had never taken his sharp eyes off me. "The
question is merely this: that any officer in authority among criminals
must of necessity bear an unblemished character. Neither in the
establishment nor out of it ought people to be able to say of him
that--that--"
"Say it out, sir."--"That there were circumstances in his former life
which would not bear inspection, and that merely accident drew the line
between himself and the convicts he was bent on reforming."
"Hear, hear!" said a justice, who had long thwarted me in my schemes;
having a conscientious objection to reforming everybody--including
himself.
"Nay," said the governor. "I did not give this as a fact,--only a
report. These reports have come to such a height, that they must either
be proved or denied. And therefore I wished, before any public inquiry
became necessary--unless, indeed, Doctor Urquhart will consent to the
explanatory self-defence which he definitely refused Mr. Thorley--"
And they both looked anxiously at me--these two whom I have always
found honest, honorable men, and who were once my friends, or at least
friendly associates--the chaplain and the governor.
Theodora, no one need ever dread lest the doctrine of total forgiveness
should make guilt no burthen, and repentance pleasant and easy. There
are some consequences of sin which must haunt a sinner to the day of his
death.
It might have been one minute or ten, that I stood motionless, feeling
as if I could have given up life and all its blessings without a pang,
to be able to face those men with a clear conscience, and say, "It is
all a lie. I am innocent."
Then, for my salvation, came the thought--it seemed spoken into my ear,
the voice half like Dallas's, half like yours--"If God hath forgiven
thee, why be afraid of men?" And I said, humbly enough--yet, I trust,
without any cringing or abjectness of fear--that I wished, before taking
any further step, to hear the whole of the statements current against
myself, and how far they were credited by the gentlemen before me.
The accusation, I was informed, stood thus: floating rumours having
accumulated into a substantive form--terribly near the truth! that I
had, in my youth, either here or abroad, committed some crime which
rendered me amenable to the laws of my country; and though, by some
trick of law, I had escaped justice, the ban upon me was such, that only
by the wandering life which I myself had owned to having led, could I
escape the fury of public opinion. The impression against me was now so
strong, in the gaol and out of it, that the governor would not engage
even by his own authority to preserve mine unless I furnished him with
an immediate, explicit denial to this charge. Which, he was pleased to
say, if it had not been so widely spread, so mysterious in its origin,
and so oddly corroborated by accidental admissions on my part, he should
have treated as simply ridiculous.
"And now," he added, apparently re-assured by the composure with which
I had listened, "I have only to ask you to deny it, point-blank, before
the board and myself."
I asked, what must I deny?
"Why, if the accusations were not too ludicrous to express, just state
that you are neither forger, burglar, nor body-snatcher; that you never
either killed a man (unprofessionally, of course, if we may be excused
the joke)--for professional purposes, or shot him irregularly in a duel,
or waylaid him with pistols behind a hedge."
"Am I supposed to have committed all these crimes?"
"Such is the gullibility of the public; you really are," said the
governor, smiling.
On the indignant impulse of the moment, I denied them each and all, upon
my honor as a gentleman; until, feeling the old chaplain cordially grip
my hand, I was roused into a full consciousness of where and what I was,
and what, either by word or implication, I had been asserting.
Somebody said, "Give him air; no wonder he feels it, poor fellow!"
And so, after a little, I gathered up my faculties, and saw the board
sitting waiting; and the governor with pen and ink before him.
"This painful business will soon be settled, Doctor," said he
cheerfully. "Just answer a question or two, which, as a matter of form,
I will put in writing, and then, if you will do me the honour to dine
with me to-day, we can consult how best to make the statement public;
without of course compromising your dignity. To begin. You hereby make
declaration that you were never in gaol? never tried at any assizes?
have never committed any act which rendered you liable to prosecution
under our criminal law?"
He ran the words off carelessly, and paused for my answer. When none
came, he looked up, his own penetrative, suspicious look.
"Perhaps I did not express myself clearly?" And he slightly changed the
form of the sentence. "Now, what shall I write, Doctor Urquhart?".
If I could then and there have made full confession, and gone out of
that room an arrested prisoner, it would have been, so far as regarded
myself, a relief unutterable, a mercy beyond all mercies. But I had to
remember your father.
The governor laid down his pen.
"This looks, to say the least, rather strange."
"Doctor," cried one of the board, "you must be mad to hold your tongue
and let your character go to the dogs in this way."
Alas, I was not mad; I saw all that was vanishing from me--inevitably,
irredeemably--my good name, my chance of earning a livelihood, my sweet
hope of a home and a wife. And I might save everything, and keep my
promise to your father also, by just one little lie!
Would you have had me utter it? No, love; I know you would rather have
had me die.
The sensation was like dying, for one minute, and then it passed away.
I looked steadily at my accusers; for accusation, at all events strong
suspicion, was in every countenance now; and told them that though I had
not perpetrated a single one of the atrocious crimes laid to my charge,
still the events of my life had been peculiar; and circumstances left me
no option but the course I had hitherto pursued, namely, total silence.
That if my good character were strong enough to sustain me through it,
I would willingly retain my post at the gaol, and weather the storm as I
best could. If this course were impossible--
"It is impossible," said the governor, decisively.
"Then I have no alternative but to tender my resignation."
It was accepted at once.
I went out from the board-room a disgraced man, with a stain upon my
character which will last for life, and follow me wherever I plant my
foot. The honest Urquhart name, which my father bore, and Dallas--which
I ought to have given stainless to my wife, and left--if I could leave
nothing else--to my children--ay, it was gone. Gone, for ever and ever.
I stole up into my own rooms, and laid myself down on my bed, as
motionless as if it had been my coffin.
Fear not, my love; one sin was saved me, perhaps by your letter of that
morning. The wretchedest, most hopeless, most guilty of men would never
dare to pray for death so long as he knew that a good woman loved him.
When daylight failed, I bestirred myself, lit my lamp, and began to make
a few preparations and arrangements about my rooms--it being clear that,
wherever I went, I must quit this place as soon as possible.
My mind was almost made up as to the course I ought to pursue; and that
of itself calmed me. I was soon able to sit down, and begin this letter
to you; but got no further than the first three words, which, often as I
have written them, look as new, strange, and precious as ever: "_My dear
Theodora_." Dear,--God knows how infinitely! and mine--altogether and
everlastingly mine. I felt this, even now. In the resolution I had
made, no doubts shook me with respect to you; for you would bid me to
do exactly what conscience urged--ay, even if you differed from me. You
said once, with your arms round my neck, and your sweet eyes looking up
steadfastly in mine:--"Max, whatever happens, always do what you think
to be right, without reference to me. I would love you all the better
for doing it, even if you broke my heart."
I was pondering thus, planning how best to tell you of things so sore;
when there came a knock to my room-door. Expecting no one but a servant,
I said "Come in," and did not even look up--for every creature in the
gaol must be familiar with my disgrace by this time.
"Doctor Urquhart, do I intrude?"
It was the chaplain.
Theodora, if I have ever in my letters implied a word against him--for
the narrowness and formality of his religious belief sometimes annoyed
and were a hindrance to me--remember it not. Set down his name, the
Reverend James Thorley, on the list of those whom I wish to be kept
always in your tender memory, as those whom I sincerely honoured, and
who have been most kind to me of all my friends.
The old man spoke with great hesitation, and when I thanked him for
coming, replied in the manner which I had many a time heard him use in
convict cells:--
"I came, sir,' because I felt it to be my duty."
"Mr. Thorley, whatever was your motive, I respect it, and thank you."
And we remained silent--both standing--for he declined my offer of a
chair. Noticing my preparations, he said, with some agitation, "Am I
hindering your plans for departure? Are you afraid of the law?"
"No."
He seemed relieved; then, after a long examining look at me, quite broke
down.
"O Doctor, Doctor, what a terrible thing this is! who would have
believed it of you!" It was very bitter, Theodora.
When he saw that I attempted neither answer nor defence, the chaplain
continued sternly:--"I come here, sir, not to pry into your secrets, but
to fulfil my duty as a minister of God; to urge you to make confession,
not unto me, but unto Him whom you have offended, whose eye you cannot
escape, and whose justice sooner or later will bring you to punishment.
But perhaps," seeing I bore with composure these and many similar
arguments; alas, they were only too familiar! "perhaps I am labouring
under a strange mistake? You do not look guilty, and I could as soon
have believed in my own son's being a criminal, as you. For God's sake
break this reserve, and tell me all."
"It is not possible."
There was a long pause, and then the old man said, sighing:--
"Well, I will urge no more. Your sin, whatever it be, rests between you
and the Judge of sinners. You say the law has no hold over you?"
"I said I was not afraid of the law."
"Therefore, it must have been a moral, rather than a legal crime, if
crime it was." And again I had to bear that searching look, so dreadful
because it was so eager and kind. "On my soul, Doctor Urquhart, I
believe you to be entirely innocent."
"Sir," I cried out, and stopped; then asked him "if he did not believe
it possible for a man to have sinned and yet repented?"
Mr. Thorley started back--so greatly shocked that I perceived at once
what an implication I had made. But it was too late now; nor, perhaps,
would I have had it otherwise.
"As a clergyman--I--I--" He paused. "If a man sin a sin which is not
unto death,--You know the rest. And there is a sin which is unto
death; I do not say that he shall pray for it? But never that we shall
_not_ pray for it."
And falling down on his knees beside me, the old chaplain repeated in
a broken voice:--"_Remember not the sins of my youth nor my
transgressions; according to thy mercy, think thou upon me, O Lord, for
thy goodness._' Not ours, which is but filthy rags; for _Thy_ goodness,
through Jesus Christ, O Lord."
"Amen."
Mr. Thorley rose, took the chair I gave him, and we sat silent.
Presently he asked me if I had any plans? Had I considered what
exceeding difficulty I should find in establishing myself anywhere
professionally, after what had happened this day?
I said, I was fully aware that, so far as my future prospects were
concerned, I was a ruined man.
"And yet you take it so calmly?"
"Ay."
"Doctor," said he, after again watching me, "you must either be
innocent, or your error must have been caused by strong temptation,
and long ago retrieved. I will never believe but that you are now as
honourable and worthy a man as any living."
"Thank you."
An uncontrollable weakness came over me; Mr. Thorley, too, was much
affected.
"I'll tell you what it is, my dear fellow," said he, as he wrung my
hand, "you must start afresh in some other part of the world. You are no
older than my son-in-law was when he married and went to Canada, in your
own profession too. By the way, I have an idea."
The idea was worthy of this excellent man, and of his behaviour to me.
He explained that his son-in-law, a physician in good practice, wanted a
partner--some one from the old country, if possible.
"If you went out, with an introduction from me, he would be sure to
like you, and all might be settled in no time. Besides, you Scotch hang
together so--my son-in-law is a Fife man--and did you not say you were
born or educated at St. Andrews? The very thing!"
And he urged me to start by next Saturday's American mail.
A sharp straggle went on within my mind. Mr. Thorley evidently thought
it sprang from another cause, and, with much delicacy, gave me to
understand that in the promised introduction, he did not consider there
was the slightest necessity to state more than that I had been an army
surgeon, and was his valued friend; that no reports against me were
likely to reach the far Canadian settlement, whither I should carry
both to his son-in-law and the world at large, a perfectly unknown and
unblemished name.
If I had ever wavered, this decided me. The hope must go. So I let it
go, in all probability, for ever.
Was I right? I can hear you say, "Yes, Max."
In bidding the chaplain farewell, I tried to explain to him, that in
this generous offer he had given to me more than he guessed--faith not
only in heaven, but in mankind, and strength to do without shrinking
what I am bound to do--trusting that there are other good Christians in
this world besides himself who dare believe that a man may sin and yet
repent--that the stigma even of an absolute crime is not hopeless, nor
eternal.
His own opinion concerning my present conduct, or the facts of my past
history, I did not seek; it was of little moment; he will shortly learn
all.
My love, I have resolved, as the only thing possible to my future peace,
the one thing exacted by the laws of God and man--to do what I ought to
have done twenty years ago--to deliver myself up to justice.
Now I have told you; but I cannot tell you the infinite calm which this
resolution has brought to me. To be free; to lay down this living load
of lies, which has hung about me for twenty years; to speak the whole
truth before God and man--confess all, and take my punishment--my
love, my love, if you knew what the thought of this is to me, you would
neither tremble nor weep, but rather rejoice!
My Theodora, I take you in my arms, I hold you to my heart, and love you
with a love that is dearer than life and stronger than-death, and I ask
you to let me do this.
In the enclosed letter to your father, I have, after relating all the
circumstances of which I here inform you, implored him to release me
from a pledge which I ought never to have given. Never, for it was
putting the fear of man before the fear of God: it was binding myself
to an eternal hypocrisy, an inward gnawing of shame, which paralyzed
my very soul. I must escape it; you must try to release me from it,--my
love, who loves me better than herself, better than myself, I mean this
poor worthless self, battered and old, which I have often thought
was more fit to go down into the grave than live to be my dear girl's
husband. Forgive me if I wound you. By the intolerable agony of this
hour, I feel that the sacrifice is just and right.
You must help me, you must urge your father to set me free. Tell
him--indeed I have told him--that he need dread no disgrace to the
family, or to him who is no more. I shall state nothing of Henry
Johnston excepting his name, and my own confession will be sufficient
and sole evidence against me.
As to the possible result of my trial, I have not overlooked it. It was
just, if only for my dear love's sake, that I should gain some idea
of the chances against me. Little as I understand of the law, and
especially English law, it seems to me very unlikely that the verdict
will be wilful murder, nor shall I plead, guilty to that. God and my
own conscience are witness that I did _not_ commit murder, but
unpremeditated manslaughter.
The punishment for this is, I believe, sometimes transportation,
sometimes imprisonment for a long term of years. If it were death--which
perhaps it might as well be to a man of my age, I must face it. The
remainder of my days, be they few or many, must be spent in peace.
If I do not hear within two days' post from Rockmount, I shall conclude
your father makes no opposition to my determination, and go at once to
surrender myself at Salisbury. _You_ need not write; it might compromise
you; it would be almost a relief to me to hear nothing of or from you,
until all was over.
And now farewell. My personal effects here I leave in charge of the
chaplain, with a sealed envelope, containing the name and address of
the friend to whom they are to be sent in case of my death, or any other
emergency. This is yourself. In my will, I have given you, as near as
the law allows, every right that you would have had, as my wife.
My wife--my wife in the sight of God, farewell! That is, until such time
as I dare write again. Take good care of yourself--be patient and
have hope. In whatever he commands--he is too just a man to command an
injustice--obey your father.
Forget me not--but you never will. If I could have seen you once more,
have felt you close to my heart--but perhaps it is better as it is.
Only a week's suspense for you, and it will be over. Let us trust in
God; and farewell! Remember how I loved you, my child!
Max Urquhart.