|My dear Theodora,--
By this time you will have known all.--Thank God, it is over. My dear,
dear love--my own faithful girl--it is over!
When I was brought back to prison tonight, I found your letters; but I
had heard of you the day before, from Colin Granton. Do not regret
the chance which made Mr. Johnston detain my letter to you, instead of
forwarding it at once to the Cedars. These sort of things never seem to
me as accidental; all was for good. In any case, I could not have done
otherwise than I did; but it would have been painful to have done it in
direct opposition to your father. The only thing I regret is, that my
poor child should have had the shock of first seeing these hard tidings
of my surrender to the magistrate, and my public confession, in a
newspaper.
Granton told me how you bore it. Tell him, I shall remember gratefully
all my life, his goodness to you, and his leaving his young wife--(whom
he dearly loves, I can see) to come to me, here. Nor was he my only
friend; do not think I was either contemned or forsaken. Sir William
Treherne and several others offered any amount of, bail for me; but it
was better I should remain in prison, during the few days between my
committal and the assizes. I needed quiet and solitude.
Therefore, my love, I dared not have seen you, even had you immediately
come to me. You have acted in all things as my dear girl was sure to
act, wise, thoughtful, self-controlled, and oh! how infinitely loving.
I had to stop here for want of daylight--but they have now brought me my
allowance of candle--slender enough, so I must make haste.
I wish you to have this full account as soon as possible after the brief
telegram which I know Mr. Granton sent you, the instant my trial was
over. A trial, however, it was not--in my ignorance of law, I imagined
much that never happened. What did happen, I will here set down.
You must not expect me to give many details; my head was rather
confused, and my health has been a good deal shaken, though do not take
heed of anything Granton may tell you about me or my looks. I shall
recover now.
Fortunately, the four days of imprisonment gave me time to recover
myself in a measure, and I was able to write out the statement I meant
to read at my trial. I preferred reading it, lest any physical weakness
might make me confused or inaccurate. You see I took all rational
precautions for my own safety. I was as just to myself as I would have
been to another man. This for your sake, and also for the sake of those
now dead, upon whose fair name I have brought the first blot.
But I must not think of that--it is too late. What best becomes me
is humility, and gratitude to God and man. Had I known in my wretched
youth, when, absorbed in terror of human justice, I forgot justice
divine, had I but known there were so many merciful hearts in this
world!
After Colin Granton left me last night, I slept quietly, for I felt
quiet and at rest. O the peace of an unburdened conscience, the freedom
of a soul at ease--which, the whole truth being told, has no longer
anything to dread, and is prepared for everything!
I rose calm and refreshed, and could see through my cell-window that it
was a lovely spring morning. I was glad my Theodora did not know what
particular day of the assizes was fixed for my trial. It would make
things a little easier for her.
It was noon before the case came on: a long time to wait.
Do not suppose me braver than I was. When I found myself standing in the
prisoner's dock, the whole mass of staring faces seemed to whirl round
and round before my eyes; I felt sick and cold; I had lost more strength
than I thought. Everything present melted away into a sort of dream
through which I fancied I heard you speaking, but could not distinguish
any words; except these, the soft, still tenderness of which haunted me
as freshly as if they had been only just uttered: "My dear Max! my dear
Max!"
By this I perceived that my mind was wandering, and must be recalled;
so I forced myself to look round at the judge, jury, witness-box--in the
which was one person sitting with his white head resting on his hand. I
felt who it was.
Did you know your father was subpoenaed here? If so, what a day this
must have been for my poor child! Think not, though, that the sight of
him added to my suffering. I had no fear of him or of anything now.
Even public shame was less terrible than I thought; those scores of
inquisitive eyes hardly stabbed so deep as in days past did many a kind
look of your father's, many a loving glance of yours.
The formalities of the court began, but I scarcely listened to them.
They seemed to me of little consequence. As I said to Granton when he
urged me to employ counsel, a man who only wants to speak the truth can
surely manage to do it, in spite of the incumbrances of the law.
It came to an end--the long, unintelligible indictment--and my first
clear perception of my position was the judge's question:--
"How say you, prisoner at the bar, guilty, or not guilty?"
I pleaded "guilty," as a matter of course. The judge asked several
questions, and held a long discussion with the counsel for the crown,
on what he termed "this very remarkable case," the purport of it was,
I believe, to ascertain my sanity; and whether any corroboration of my
confession could be obtained. It could not. All possible witnesses were
long since dead, except your father.
He still kept his position, neither turning towards me, nor yet from
me,--neither compassionate nor revengeful, but sternly composed; as if
his long sorrows had obtained their solemn satisfaction, and even though
the end was thus, he felt relieved that it had come. As if he, like me,
had learned to submit that our course should be shaped for us rather
than by us; being taught that even in this world's events, the God of
Truth will be justified before men; will prove that: those who, under
any pretence, disguise or deny the truth, live not unto Him, but unto
the father of lies.
Is it not strange, that then and there I should have been calm enough to
think of these things. Ay, and should calmly write of them now. But as I
have told you, in a great crisis my mind always recovers its balance
and becomes quiet. Besides, sickness makes us both clear-sighted and
far-sighted; wonderfully so, sometimes.
Do not suppose from this admission, that my health is gone or going;
but, simply that I am, as I see in the looking-glass, a somewhat older
and feebler man than my dear love remembers me a year ago. But I must
hasten on.
The plea of guilty being recorded, no trial was necessary; the judge had
only to pass sentence. I was asked whether, by counsel or otherwise, I
wished to say anything in my own defence? And then I rose and told the
whole truth.
Do not grieve for me, Theodora? The truth is never really terrible. What
makes it so is the fear of man, and that was over with me; the torment
of guilty shame, and that was gone too. I have had many a moment of far
sharper anguish, more grinding humiliation than this, when I stood up
and publicly confessed the sin of my youth, with the years of suffering
which had followed--dare I say expiated it?
There is a sense in which no sin ever can be expiated, except in One
Blessed Way;--yet, in so far as man can atone to man, I believed
I had atoned for mine; I had tried to give a life for a life, morally
speaking; nay, I had given it. But it was not enough; it could not he.
Nothing less than the truth was required from me--and I here offered it.
Thus, in one short half hour, the burthen of a lifetime was laid down
for ever.
The judge--he was not unmoved,-so they told me afterwards--said he must
take time to consider the sentence. Had the prisoner any witnesses as to
character?
Several came forward. Among the rest, the good old chaplain, who had
travelled all night from Liverpool, in order, he said, just to shake
hands with me to-day--which he did, in open court--God bless him!
There was also Colonel Turton; with Colin Granton--who had never left me
since daylight this morning--but they all held back when they saw rise
and come forward, as if with the intention of being sworn, your father.
Have no fear my love, for his health. I watched him closely all this
day. He bore it well--it will have no ill result I feel sure. From my
observation of him, I should say that a great and salutary change had
come over him, both body and mind, and that he is as likely to enjoy a
green old age as any one I know.
When he spoke, his voice was as steady and clear as before his accident
it used to be in the pulpit.
"My lords and gentlemen, I was subpoenaed to this trial. Not being
called upon to give evidence, I wish to make a statement upon oath."
There must have been a "sensation in the court," as newspapers say, for
I saw Granton look anxiously at me. But I had no fears. Your father,
whatever he had to say, was sure to speak the truth, not a syllable more
or less, and the truth was all I wanted.
The judge here interfered, observing that there being no trial, he could
receive no legal evidence against the prisoner.
"Nor have I any such evidence to give: I wish only for justice. My lord,
may I speak?"
Assent was given.
Your father's words were brief and formal; but you will imagine how they
fell on one ear at least.
"My name is William Henry Johnston, clerk, of Rockmount, Surrey. Henry
Johnston, who--died--on the night of November 19th, 1836, was my only
son. I know the prisoner at the bar. I knew him for some time before he
was aware whose father I was, or I had any suspicion that my son came to
his death in any other way than by accident."
"Was your first discovery of these painful facts by the prisoner's
present confession?"
"No, my lord." Your father hesitated, but only momentarily. "He told
me the whole story, himself, a year ago, under circumstances that would
have induced most men to conceal it for ever."
The judge inquired why was not this confession made public at once?
"Because I was afraid. I did not wish to make my family history a
by-word and a scandal. I exacted a promise that the secret should be
kept inviolate. This promise he has broken--but I blame him not. It
ought never to have been made."
"Certainly not. It was thwarting the purposes of justice and of the
law."
"My lord, I am an old man, and a clergyman; I know nothing about the
law; but I know it was a wrong act to bind any man's conscience to live
a perpetual lie."
Your father was here asked if he had any thing more to say?
"A word only. In the prisoner's confession, he has, out of delicacy to
me, omitted three facts, which weigh materially in extenuation of his
crime. When he committed it he was only nineteen, and my son was thirty.
He was drunk, and my son, who led an irregular life, had made him so,
and afterwards taunted him, more than a youth of nineteen was likely
to bear. Such was his statement to me, and knowing his character and my
son's, I have little doubt of its perfect accuracy."
The judge looked up for his notes. "You seem, sir, strange to say, to be
not unfavourable towards the prisoner."
"I am just towards the prisoner. I wish to be, even though he has on his
hands the blood of my only son."
After the pause which followed, the judge said:--
"Mr. Johnston:--the Court respects your feelings, and regrets to detain
you longer or put you to any additional pain. But it may materially
aid the decision of this very peculiar case, if you will answer another
question. You are aware that, all other evidence being wanting, the
prisoner can only be judged by his own confession. Do you believe, on
your oath, that this confession is true?"
"I do. I am bound to say from my intimate knowledge of the prisoner,
that I believe him to be now, whatever he may have been in his youth,
a man of sterling honour and unblemished life; one who would not tell a
lie to save himself from the scaffold."
"The Court is satisfied."
But before he sat down, your father turned, and, for the first time that
day, he and I were face to face.
"I am a clergyman, as I said, and I never was in a court of justice
before. Is it illegal for me to address a few words to the prisoner?"
Whether it was or not, nobody interrupted him.
"Doctor Urquhart," he said, speaking loud enough for every one to hear,
"what your sentence may be I know not, or whether you and I shall ever
meet again until the day of judgment. If not, I believe that if we are
to be forgiven our debts according as we forgive our debtors, I shall
have to forgive you then. I prefer to do it now, while we are in the
flesh, and it may comfort your soul. I, Henry Johnston's father, declare
publicly that I believe what you did was done in the heat of youth, and
has ever since been bitterly repented of. May God pardon you, even as I
do this day."
I did not see your father afterwards. He quitted the court directly
after sentence was given--three months' imprisonment--the judge making a
long speech previously; but I heard not a syllable. I heard nothing but
your father's words--saw no one except himself, sitting there below me,
with his hands crossed on his stick, and a stream of sunshine falling
across his white hairs--Theodora--Theodora--I cannot write--it is
impossible.
Granton got admission to me for a minute, after I was taken back to
prison. He told me that the "hard labour" was remitted, that there had
been application made for commutation of the three months into one, but
the judge declined. If I wished, a new application should be made to the
Home Secretary.
No, my love, suffer him not to do it. Let nothing more be done. I had
rather abide my full term of punishment. It is only too easy.
Do not grieve for me. Trust me, my child, many a peer puts on his robes
with a heavier heart than I put on this felon's dress, which shocked
Granton so much that he is sure to tell you of it. Never mind it--my
clothes are not me, are they, little lady? Who was the man that
wrote:--=
````"Stone walls do not a prison make,
````Nor iron bars a cage,
````Minds innocent--"=
Am I innocent? No, but I am forgiven, as I believe, before God and man.
And are not all the glories of heaven preparing, not for sinless but for
pardoned souls?
Therefore, I am at peace. This first night of my imprisonment is, for
some things, as happy to me as that which I have often imagined to
myself, when I should bring you home for the first time to my own
fireside.
Not even that thought, and the rush of thoughts that came with it, are
able to shake me out of this feeling of unutterable rest: so perfect
that it seems strange to imagine I shall ever go out of this cell to
begin afresh the turmoil of the world--as strange as that the dead
should wish to return again to life and its cares. But this as God
wills.
My love, good night. Granton will give you any further particulars. Talk
to him freely--it will be his good heart's best reward. His happy, busy
life, which is now begun, may have been made all the brighter for the
momentary cloud which taught him that Providence oftentimes blesses us in
better ways than by giving us exactly the thing we desired. He told me
when we parted, which was the only allusion he made to the past--that
though Mrs. Colin was "the dearest little woman in all the world," he
should always adore as "something between a saint and an angel," Miss
Dora.
Is she my saint and angel? Perhaps--if she were not likewise the woman
of my love.
What is she doing now, I wonder? Probably vanishing, lamp in hand, as
I have often watched her, up the stair into her own wee room--where she
shuts the door and remembers me.
Yes, remember me--but not with pain. Believe that I am happy--that
whatever now befalls me, I shall always be happy.
Tell your father--No, tell him nothing. He surely knows all. Or he will
know it--when, this life having passed away like a vapour, he and I
stand together before the One God--who is also the Redeemer of sinners.
Write to me, but do not come and see me. Hitherto, your name has been
kept clear out of everything; it must be still, at any sacrifice to both
of us. I count on this from you. You know, you once said, laughing, you
had already taken in your heart the marriage vow of "obedience," if I
chose to exact it.
I never did, but I do now. Unless I send for you--which I solemnly
promise to do if illness or any other cause makes it necessary--obey me,
your husband: do not come and see me.
Three months will pass quickly. Then? But let us not look forward.
My love, good-night.
Max Urquhart.