“SEEK SHELTER IN THE SHADOW OF THE TOMB.”
Of the people who came to look upon the grave, some to lay a tributary
flower upon the stone, and some to pluck a leaf or two of acanthus
or violet, all hitherto had been strangers to Isola, had gone away
without seeing her, or had glanced indifferently, as at one more
unfortunate with a sketching-block, spoiling paper in the pursuit of
the unattainable. There were so many amateur artists sitting about
in the outskirts of the city, that such a figure in a romantic spot
challenged nobody’s attention. So far people had come and gone, and had
taken no notice; but one afternoon a figure in a long black cassock
came suddenly between her and the golden light, and Isola looked up
with a cry of surprise on recognizing Father Rodwell.
“You did not expect to see me here,” he said, holding out his hand.
She had risen from her seat on the low grassy bank, and she gave him
her hand, half in pleasure, half in a nervous apprehension which his
keen eye was quick to perceive. His life had been spent in dealings
with the souls of men and women, and he had learnt to read those living
pages as easily as he read Plato or Spinosa.
“No,” she said. “I had no idea you were in Rome. You told us you were
going back to London.”
“I meant to go back to London and hard work, but my doctor insisted
upon my prolonging my holiday for a few weeks, so I came here instead.
Rome always draws me, and is always new. Rome gives me fresh life and
fresh power when my heart and brain have been feeling benumbed and
dead. I am glad they brought you here, Mrs. Disney. You were looking
languid and ill when you left San Remo. I hope Rome has revivified you.”
He looked at her earnestly. Her face had been in shadow until now, but
as she moved into the sunlight, he saw that the lines had sharpened in
the pale, wan face, and that there was the stamp of wasting disease
in the hollow cheeks, and about the sunken eyes, and in the almost
bloodless lips. As he looked at her in friendliest commiseration
those pathetic grey eyes--whose expression had baffled his power of
interpretation hitherto--filled suddenly with tears, and in the next
moment she clasped her hands before her face in an agony of grief.
The Italian Testament which she had been reading when he approached
dropped at her feet, and stooping to pick it up Father Rodwell saw that
it was open at the fourth chapter of St. John, the story of the woman
of Samaria, the sinner with whom Christ talked at the well. A leaf
from Shelley’s grave lay upon the book, as if to mark where Isola had
been reading, and Father Rodwell’s quick glance saw that the page was
blotted with tears.
“My dear Mrs. Disney,” he said gently, “is there anything wrong at
home? Your husband, your boy are well, I hope?”
“Yes, thank God, they are both well. God has been very good to me. He
might have taken those I love. He has been merciful.”
“He is merciful to all His creatures; though there are times when His
dealings with us seem very hard. Oh, Mrs. Disney, you can’t think how
difficult a priest’s office is sometimes when he has to reconcile the
afflicted with the Providence that has seen fit to lay some heavy
burden on them. They cannot understand; they cannot say it is well.
They cannot kiss the rod. But as you say, God has been good to you.
Your lines have been set in pleasant places. You are hedged round and
sheltered by love. I never saw greater affection in husband for wife
than I have seen in your husband. I never saw sister more devoted to
sister than your sister-in-law is to you.”
She had sunk again into a sitting position on the low bank at the foot
of the wall. Her face was still hidden, and her sobs came faster as he
spoke to her.
“Why should you grieve at the thought of their love? Is it because it
may please God to take you from them in the morning of your life? If it
is that dread which agitates you I entreat you to put it aside. There
is nothing in your case that forbids hope, and hope will do much to
help your recovery. You should tell yourself how valuable your life is
to those who love you. The thought of their affection should give you
courage to struggle against apathy and languor. Believe me, invalids
have their condition a great deal more in their own power than they
are inclined to believe. So much can be overcome where the spirit is
strong and brave, where faith and hope fight against bodily weakness.
You ought not to be sitting alone here in this saddening spot. It is
lovely, but with the beauty of death. You ought to be driving out to
Frascati or to Tivoli with your husband. You ought to be watching the
carriages in the Pincian Gardens, or amusing yourself in one of the
picture galleries.”
“I had rather be alone,” she said, wiping away her tears, and in some
degree recovering her self-possession.
“That is a morbid fancy, and one that hinders your recovery.”
“I have no wish to recover. I only want to die.”
“My dear Mrs. Disney, it is your duty to fight against these melancholy
moods. Can you be indifferent to your husband’s feelings? Have you not
the mother’s natural desire to watch over your child’s early years, to
see him reach manhood?”
“No, no, no!” she cried passionately. “I have had enough of life. They
are dear to me, very dear. No wife ever loved and honoured her husband
more than I love and honour mine--but it is all over, it is past, and
ended. I am more than resigned to death--I am thankful that God has
called me away.”
He watched her closely as she spoke, watched her with his hand upon
hers, which was cold as ice. He had heard such words before from the
early doomed, but they had been accompanied by religious exaltation;
they had been the outpouring of a faith that saw the gates of heaven
opened and the Son of man sitting in glory--of a love that longed to be
with God. Here there was no sign of hope or exaltation. There were only
the tokens of despair.
He remembered how agitated he had seen her many times in the
little church at San Remo, and how, although hanging eagerly upon
his preaching, she had persistently avoided anything like serious
conversation with him upon the few occasions when he had found himself
alone with her.
He had her Testament still in his hand, and looking down at the
tear-stained page it seemed to him that there lay the clue to her
melancholy.
“You have been reading the story of the woman of Samaria,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you have read that other story of her who knelt in the dust at
her Saviour’s feet, and to whom He said, ‘Neither do I condemn thee.’”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything in either of those stories to sadden you more than
the thought of sin and sorrow saddens all of us?”
She looked at him shrinkingly, pale as death, as if he had a dagger in
his hand ready to strike her.
“No, I don’t suppose there is anything that goes home to my heart any
more than to other hearts,” she said, after a pause, trying to speak
carelessly. “We are all sinners. The Gospel teaches us that in every
line! We are none of us altogether worthy--not even my husband, I
suppose, although to me he seems a perfect Christian.”
“I can believe that he is a Christian, Mrs. Disney, and a man of strong
convictions. If he had wronged anybody, I do not think he would rest
till he had atoned for that wrong.”
“I am sure he would not. He would do his uttermost to atone. And so
would I--although I do not pretend to be half so good a Christian as he
is. I would do all in my power to atone for any wrong I had done to one
I loved.”
“As you love your husband, for instance.”
“Yes, as I love him. He is first in the world for me. Dear as my child
is, Martin must always be first.”
“And you would not for the world do him any wrong?” pursued the priest,
more and more earnest as he went on, pale with emotion, his whole power
of observation concentrated upon the whitening face and lowered eyelids
of the woman sitting at his feet.
“Not for the world, not for my life,” she said, with her hands tightly
clasped, her eyes still hidden under the heavy lids, tearless now--and
with dry and quivering lips, from which the words came with a dull and
soulless sound. “I would die to save him an hour’s pain. I would fling
away this wretched life rather than grieve him for a moment.”
“Poor soul!” murmured the priest, pitying that debt of self-abasement
which he understood so well, under whatsoever guise she might hide her
contrition. “Poor soul, you talk too lightly of that great mystery
which we should all face in a spirit of deep humility. Do you feel
that you can contemplate that passage through death to a new life
without fear of the issue? Have you no reckoning to make with the God
who pardons repentant sinners? Do you stand before Him with a clear
conscience--having kept nothing back--cherished no hidden sin?”
“No one can be without sin in His sight. Do you suppose that I am
sinless, or that I have ever believed myself sinless? I know how
weak and poor a thing I am--a worm in the sight of Him who rules the
universe. But if--if He cares for such as I, He knows that I am sorry
for every sinful thought and every sinful act of my life.”
She spoke in short sentences, each phrase broken by a sob. She felt
as if he were tearing out her heart, this man who had been heretofore
so kindly and indulgent in his speech and manner that he seemed to
make religion an easy thing, a garment as loose and expansive as
philosophy itself. And, now, all at once he appeared before her as a
judge, searching out her heart, cruel, inflexible, weighing her in the
balance, and finding her wanting.
“If I am sorry,” she murmured, between her sobs, “what more can God or
man require of me?”
“Nothing, if your sorrow is that true sorrow which means repentance,
and goes hand-in-hand with atonement. Forgive me, my dear friend,
for presuming to speak unreservedly to you. If I try to find out the
nature of your wound it is only that I may help you to heal it. Ever
since I have known you I have seen the tokens of a wounded heart, a
bruised and broken spirit. I saw you surrounded with all the blessings
that make woman’s lot happy. It was hardly possible to conceive
fairer surroundings and truer friends. Can you wonder, then, if my
compassionate interest was awakened by the indications of a deep-rooted
sorrow for which there was no apparent cause? I saw your emotion in
church, saw how quickly your heart and mind responded to the appeal
of religion--saw in you a soul attuned to heavenly things, and day by
day my interest in you and yours grew stronger. The hope of seeing you
again, of helping you to bear your burden, of ultimately lightening
it, was one of my reasons for coming to Rome. I felt somehow that you
and I had not met in vain--that my power to move you was not without a
meaning in both our lives; that if, as I thought, you needed spiritual
help and comfort, it was my vocation to help and comfort you. And so
I came to Rome, and so I found out where you spent your quiet hours,
and so I have followed you here this afternoon. Tell me, Mrs. Disney,
did I presume too much? Was it the preacher’s vanity or the priest’s
intuition that spoke?”
“It was intuition,” she said. “You saw that I had sinned. None but a
sinner could shed such tears--could so feel the terror of God’s wrath.”
“It is of His love I want you to think. Of His immeasurable love and
pity. Of His Son’s Divine compassion. If you have any special need of
His pardon; if there is any sinful secret locked in your heart; do not
let the golden hours go by--the time meet for repentance.”
“I have repented,” she cried piteously. “My life has been one long
repentance ever since my sin.”
“And your husband--he who so fondly loves you--he knows all, and has
forgiven all?”
“Knows!” The word broke from her lips almost in a shriek of horror.
“He knows nothing--he must never know. He would despise me, leave me
to die alone, while he went far away from me, to the very end of the
world. He would take his son with him. I should be left alone--alone to
face death--the most desolate creature God ever looked upon. Oh, Father
Rodwell, why have you wrung my secret from me?” she cried, grovelling
on her knees in the long grass beside him, clinging to his hand as he
bent over her, gravely compassionate, deeply moved by her distress.
“How cruel to question--to torture me--how cruel to use your power
of reading guilty hearts. You will tell my husband, who so loves and
trusts me. You will tell him what a guilty wretch I am.”
“Tell him, Mrs. Disney! Can you forget that I am a priest--for whom the
sinner’s confession is sacred? Do you think I have never talked with
the tempted and the sorrowing before to-day? Do you think that grief
such as yours can be an unknown experience to a man who has worked
in a crowded London parish for nearly twenty years? I wanted to know
the worst, so that I might be able to advise and to console you. If I
have questioned you to-day, it has been as a priest has the right to
question; and this place where you and I have met to-day is in my sight
as sacred as the confessional. You need have no fear that I shall tell
your husband the secret of your sorrow. All I will do is to help you to
find strength to tell him yourself.”
“Oh no, no, no!” she cried piteously. “Never! never! I can die, I am
prepared to die; but I can never tell him--I cannot, I dare not.”
“Yet you could dare to die with a lie upon your lips--you who are
ready to meet your Judge--you whose whole life is a lie--you who have
cheated and betrayed the best of men. Oh, Mrs. Disney, reflect what
this thing is which you are doing; reflect what kind of sin it is you
are committing. If, as your own sorrowing words acknowledge, you have
been a false wife--a false wife to the best and truest of husbands, can
you dare to act out that falsehood to the last, to die with that guilty
secret locked in your heart, from him who has a right to know,--and who
alone upon earth has a right to pardon.”
“Oh, how cruel you are!” she said, lifting up her streaming eyes to his
earnest, inflexible face. “Is it a Christian’s part to be so cruel,
to break the bruised reed, to crush anything so weak and wretched as
I am? Is not repentance enough? I have spent long nights in penitence
and tears, long days in dull aching remorse. I would have given all my
future life to atone for one dreadful hour--one unpremeditated yielding
to temptation. I _have_ given my life--for my secret has killed me.
What more can man or God demand of me? What more can I do to win
forgiveness?”
“Only this--tell your husband the truth--however painful, however
humiliating the confession. That will be your best atonement. That
is the sacrifice which will help to reconcile you with your God. You
cannot hope for God’s love and pardon hereafter, if you live and die
as a hypocrite here. God’s saints were some of them steeped in the
darkness of guilt before they became the children of light--but there
was not one of them who shrank from the confession of his sins.”
“You are a man,” sobbed Isola. “You do not know what it is for a woman
to confess that she is unworthy of her husband’s love. You do not know.
It is not possible for a man to know the meaning of shame.”
“You are wrong there,” he said, gently lifting her from the ground,
and placing her beside him on the bank. “What chastity is to a woman,
honour is to a man. Men have had to stand up before their fellow-men
and acknowledge their violation of man’s code of honour; knowing that
such acknowledgment made them dirt, and very dirt, in the sight of
honourable men. You, as a woman, know not how deep men’s scorn cuts a
man who has sinned against the law which governs gentlemen. A woman
thinks there is no such sting as the sting of her shame. Men know
better. Yes, I know that it will be most bitter, more bitter than
death--for you to tell Colonel Disney that you are not what you have
seemed to him; but apart from all considerations of duty, do not his
love and devotion deserve the sacrifice of self-love on your part?
Can you bear yourself to the last, as a virtuous wife--enjoying his
respect--knowing that it is undeserved----”
“I will tell him--at the last,” she faltered. “In that parting hour I
shall not shrink from telling him all--how I sinned against him--almost
unawares--drifting half unconsciously into a fatal entanglement--and
then--and then--against my will--in my weakness and helplessness--alone
in the power of the man I loved--betrayed into sin. Oh God! why do
you make me remember?” she cried wildly, turning upon the priest
in passionate reproachfulness. “For years I have been trying to
forget--trying to blank out the past--praying, praying, praying that
my humble, tearful love for my husband and my child might cancel those
hours of sin. And you come to me, and question me, and on pretence of
saving my soul, you force me to look back upon that bygone horror--to
live again through that time of madness--the destruction of my life.
Cruel, cruel, cruel!”
“Forgive me!” said Father Rodwell, very gently, seeing that she was
struggling with hysteria. “I have been too hard, perhaps, too eager
to convince you of the right! There are some men, even of my sacred
calling, who would judge your case otherwise--who would say the husband
is happy in his ignorance; the wife has repented of her sin. _Non
quieta movere._ But it is not in my nature to choose the easy pathways;
and it may be that I am too severe a teacher. We will not talk any more
about serious things to-day. Only believe that I am your friend--your
sincere and devoted friend. If I have spoken hard things, be assured I
would have spoken in the same spirit had you been my own sister. Let
us say no more yet awhile--and perhaps when you have thought over our
interview to-day you will come to see things almost as I see them. I
won’t press the matter. I will leave your own heart and conscience to
plead with you. And now may I walk home with you, before the beauty of
the afternoon begins to fade?”
“The vetturino will be waiting for me at the gate,” Isola answered,
with a dull, dead voice, rising languidly, and adjusting the loosened
hair about her forehead with tremulous fingers.
She had thrown off her hat a little while before, and now she took it
up, and straightened the loops of ribbon with a nervous touch here and
there, and then put the hat on again, and arranged the gossamer veil,
which she hoped might hide her swollen eyelids and tear-stained cheeks.
“If Martin should come to meet me, what will he think? she said
piteously.
“Let me go with you, and I may be able to distract his attention--if
you don’t want him to see that you have been crying.”
“No, no. He must not see. He would wonder, and question me--and guess,
perhaps--as you did just now. How was it you knew--what made you
guess?” she asked, with a sense of rebellion against this man who had
pierced the veil behind which she had been hiding herself so long.
“I saw your sorrow; and I knew that there could scarcely be so deep a
sorrow if there were no memory of sin. Will you take my arm down this
steep path?”
“No, thank you. I know every step. I could walk about this place in my
sleep. You have been cruel to me, Father Rodwell, very cruel. Promise
me one thing by way of atonement for your cruelty. Promise me that if
I die in Rome I shall be buried in this place, and as near Shelley’s
grave as they can find room to lay me.”
“I promise. Yes, it is a sweet spot, is it not? It was down yonder in
the old burial-ground that Shelley looked upon the grave of Keats, and
said it was a spot to make one in love with death. But I would not
have you think yourself doomed to an early death, Mrs. Disney. Have
you never read in the ‘Lives of the Saints’ how some who were on the
point of death have revived at the touch of the holy oil, and have
lived and have renewed their strength, and re-entered the world to
lead a holier and nobler life than they had led before? Who knows if
you were to confess your sin, and patiently suffer whatever penance
you were called upon to bear, new vistas might not open for you? There
is more than one way of being happy in this world. If you could never
again know the sweetness of a domestic life--as trusted wife and happy
mother--there are other and wider lives in which you would count your
children and your sisters by hundreds. There are sisterhoods in which
your future might be full of usefulness and full of peace. Or if you
had no vocation for that wider life, it might be that touched by your
helplessness in the past, and your remorse in the present, your husband
might find it in his heart to forgive that bygone sin, and still to
cherish, and still to hold you dear.”
“No, no,” she cried impatiently. “I would not live for an hour after he
knew. I know what he would do. He has told me. He would leave me--at
once, and for ever. I should never see his face again. I should be dead
to him, by a worse death than the grave; for he would only think of me
to shudder at my name. Oh, Father Rodwell, Christianity must be a cruel
creed if it can demand such a sacrifice from me. What good can come of
his knowing the truth? Only agony to him and shame and despair to me.
Can that be good?”
“Truth is life, and falsehood is death,” answered the priest, firmly.
“You must choose your own course, Mrs. Disney; but there is one
argument I may urge as a man of the world rather than as a priest.
Nothing is ever hidden for very long in this life. There is no secret
so closely kept that some one has not an inkling of it. Better your
husband should hear the truth from you, in humble self-accusation, than
that he should learn it later--perhaps after he has mourned you for
years--from a stranger’s lips.”
“Oh, that would be horrible--too horrible. But I will confess to him;
I will tell him everything--on my deathbed. Yes, when life is ebbing,
when the end is close, I will tell him. He shall know what a false and
perjured creature I am. I swore to him--swore before God that I was
true and faithful--that I loved him and no other. And it was true,
absolute truth, when I took that oath. My sin was a thing of the past.
I had loved another, and I had let my love lead me into sin. And then
my husband asked me if I had been true and pure always; always. ‘Is
that true, Isola? I call upon God to hear your answer,’ he said. And
I answered yes, it was true. I lied before God rather than lose my
husband’s love; and God heard me, and the blight of His anger has been
upon me ever since, withering and consuming me.”
They went down the steep pathway, Father Rodwell first, Isola
following, between the crowded graves, the azaleas and camelias,
veronica and guelder rose, lilac and magnolia, and on either hand a
wilderness of roses, red and white.
The shadows of the cypresses closed over them in that deep alley, and
the twilight gloom might seem symbolic of the passage through death to
life; for beyond the gates, and through a gap in the cypress screen,
the level landscape and the city domes and bell-towers were shining in
the yellow light of afternoon.