THE CONFESSION.
Miss Holme, Father Spiridion, and Major Strickland were seated
together in the little parlour of the latter on a certain morning a
few weeks after the death of Sister Agnes. The major had been over to
Dupley Walls to beg a holiday for Janet, and had brought her back with
him. This was the day appointed for the opening of the box that had
been left in the father's charge.
Janet in her black dress looked pale and worn, but very lovely. She
had been obliged in some measure to conceal the outward tokens of her
grief for fear of exciting the suspicions of Lady Pollexfen, and the
effort had lent a touch of sternness to her face such as it had never
worn before. The wound in her heart was as deep as ever it had been,
but she had learned already to control her emotions, and her demeanour
this morning was marked by a gravity and self-restraint that made her
seem older than her years.
When they were all seated at table Father Spiridion produced the box,
a very small affair, made of cedar and hooped with silver. Janet
handed him the key and he proceeded to open it.
"Before making an examination of the contents," he said, turning to
Janet, "it is requisite that I should enlighten you on one or two
points. At the request of Sister Agnes I have informed our friend,
Major Strickland, of the relationship that existed between you and
her; I have told him also that you are the granddaughter of Lady
Pollexfen--two facts with which he was previously unacquainted and
which are a source of great surprise to him. I have further informed
him as to the particular request of Sister Agnes that he should act
with me in this case as trustee or executor for the furtherance of
your interests in whatsoever direction those interests may seem to
lie. Of the contents of this box I have only a general knowledge. I
believe the chief article in it will be found to be a statement,
written out by Sister Agnes, in which will be given such details of
her early life as she has deemed needful for the complete elucidation
of the facts that she was desirous of submitting for our
consideration. Of those details I myself have no knowledge, but with
her relations towards you and Lady Pollexfen I was made acquainted
several years ago under the seal of confession. With your permission
we will now proceed to an examination of the contents of the box."
Father Spiridion opened the box slowly and reverently as though he
could not forget that it had been last closed by the fingers of the
dead. Of the contending emotions by which Janet was agitated it would
be vain to attempt any analysis. She sat with one hand clasped rigidly
in the other, her large luminous eyes fixed steadfastly on Father
Spiridion, her bosom rising and falling rather faster than common, but
looking in other respects as cold and statuesque as though she had
been cut out of some beautiful stone.
The first article produced by Father Spiridion from the box was a
miniature painted on ivory of an exceedingly handsome young man, with
initials in filigree silver at the back. The next article was a large
old-fashioned gold locket containing hair of two different colours
worked into the form of a true-lover's knot. Then came a worn
wedding-ring. Then a marriage-certificate the writing of which was
faded and yellow with age. Next two or three love-letters signed with
the same initials, E.F., as were on the back of the miniature. Last of
all came several sheets of paper stitched together, and folded across,
and endorsed:
"A Confession.
"To be read by my daughter, Janet Holme;
by my old and faithful friend, Major Strickland;
and by my father-confessor, Father Spiridion;
by them and by no one else."
Each article as it was produced from the box was, after a cursory
examination, handed over to Janet. She gazed at the portrait and the
locket with no other sign of outward emotion than a closer knitting of
her brows. The wedding-ring she kissed passionately. The certificate
she read carefully twice over, and her face flushed as she read. Then
she refolded it and put it calmly down in its place on the table. The
love-letters were merely glanced at, and were then left for future
consideration. The Confession itself Janet took into her hands for a
moment. She recognised the writing at once. With a deep sigh she gave
it back to the priest.
"Read it aloud, dear Father Spiridion, if you please," she said.
The old man rubbed his spectacles slowly and solemnly, as befitted the
occasion, placed them carefully astride his nose, and after a
preliminary cough, took up the paper and read what follows,--
"My darling Janet,--It is not intended that these lines shall meet
your eye till the hand that writes them is mingled with the dust from
which it came. I have been driven to write what is here set down by
some inward influence--by some occult power working through me, and
giving me no rest till I promised myself that it should be done. For
myself, I have done with the world and its active duties long ago. I
have no longer any interest in it except in so far as I may be
permitted to watch over your fortunes, to love you with the secret
love of a mother who dare not acknowledge her child, and to perform
such small works of charity among the sick and poor as my humble means
may allow of. But as regards you, the case is altogether different.
You are on the verge of womanhood, and life, with all its struggles
and temptations, is still before you. To lift up and clear away the
mystery that has enveloped your childhood and youth, to inform you
what your real position is in that great world into which you are
about to enter, is therefore an act of the simplest justice, and one
which ought no longer to be delayed. Unfortunately the revelation is
one which I am forbidden to make while I am alive, but I am advised
that in the form of a written confession it may be received by you
after my death. These remarks will be better understood by you
when you shall have read the whole of what I am now about to set down.
"I was born at Dupley Walls, the youngest of three children. My
brother Charles, who died in India at the age of twenty, was two years
older, and my sister Eudoxia, who died when she was fourteen, was six
years older than me. When I was three years old I was sent for by my
father's half-sister, a rich maiden lady who lived at Beckley in
Cumberland. It was understood that I was to be regarded as her adopted
child, and that some day the great bulk of her fortune would come to
me. Of my father I remember next to nothing. I never saw him again
after going to live at Beckley. I have been told, and I have reason to
believe it true, that he disliked me, and was glad to be rid of me for
ever. In this respect my sister fared worse than I did. My father
disliked her almost as much as he disliked me, but poor Eudoxia had no
rich aunt to release her from a tyranny that was driving her slowly
into the grave.
"My father, Sir John Pollexfen, was a man of strong passions; cruel
and unbending to a degree where he could be so with impunity. He and
my mother were ill-matched. Knowing as you do, what Lady Pollexfen is
now, how proud, stern, and unyielding, with yet occasional capricious
fits of kindness and generous feeling, you will readily understand how
her married life was one of perpetual discord and soul-fretting
unhappiness. At length she and my father separated in consequence of a
disagreement respecting my brother, and they never saw each other
again till my father lay dying. He carried his dislike of my mother
beyond the grave, in ordering that his body should be kept unburied
for twenty years; that it should remain under whatever roof my mother
might choose to make her permanent residence during that time; and
that my mother should visit it in person at least once a week during
the whole period of twenty years, should her life be spared for so
long a time.
"In the seclusion of Beckley the items of news that reached us from
Dupley Walls were few and far between. I had never been encouraged to
write to either of my parents, and neither of them ever thought of
writing to me. A coldly-worded letter once every six months from my
aunt to her brother, and an equally cold reply a month or two
afterwards, were the sole links that bound me to those I would fain
have loved but could not. At the age of seventeen I knew or remembered
little more of my parents than I should have done had they died on the
day I left Dupley Walls. Had they really been dead I should have
cherished their memory, and thought tenderly of them; but since they
were alive, their cold neglect chilled me to the heart, and withered
every flower of love that ought to have flourished there.
"But I was not unhappy. Although my life at Beckley was one of almost
conventual seclusion, and although my aunt was a woman of
unsympathetic nature and ascetic disposition, the springs of youth
were fresh within me, and who could tell what happiness the future
might not have in store? The situation of the house was a very lonely
one, and there being so little that was attractive to me within doors,
it cannot be wondered at that nearly the whole of my spare time was
spent among the glorious moors and fells by which we were shut in on
every side. My aunt never made any objection to my long solitary
rambles: solitude was congenial to herself, she loved best to be
alone, and to her it seemed only natural and proper that my
disposition in such things should bear some resemblance to her own.
"It was on the occasion of one of these lonely rambles that I first
encountered Mr. Fairfax. He had been out fishing, and was crossing the
moor a little way behind me on his road to the nearest village, when a
sudden thunderstorm came on. In three minutes I should have been
drenched to the skin. Mr. Fairfax saw the emergency, hurried up,
apologized, introduced himself, and insisted on my acceptance of his
waterproof till the rain should have ceased. I loved him from that
first time of seeing him. We met again and again. If a man's oaths may
ever be trusted, he loved me in return. I listened and believed. He
asked me to elope with him, and I told him that if he would make me
his wife I would follow him to the end of the world. He said: 'It will
be my dearest happiness to make you my wife, only you must give me
your solemn promise never to reveal your marriage without having first
obtained my permission to do so. Family reasons compel me to ask this
sacrifice.' To make such a promise implied no sacrifice on my part; it
was not his family but him that I was about to marry, and to my mind
there was something very delicious in the thought of being a
participant in so important a secret.
"But why go into details?--although I could linger over this part of
my story for years. It is sufficient to say that we eloped, and that
we were married the same day at Whitehaven, a few miles away. A friend
of Mr. Fairfax, named Captain Lant, gave me away. The only other
witness to our marriage was the old pew-opener. Immediately after the
marriage we bade farewell to Captain Lant, and went northward into
Scotland. After a happy month spent in the Highlands we came south. I
would fain have stopped to see the wonders of London, of which I had
heard so much at different times, but Mr. Fairfax would only agree to
pass one night there, after which we at once set out for the
Continent. Avoiding Paris and all the large towns, but lingering here
and there in some sweet country nook, we came at length to the borders
of the Lake of Lucerne. Half a mile inland, but overlooking the lake,
and out of the ordinary track of tourists, we found a tiny villa that
was in want of a tenant. Mr. Fairfax took it for a term of six months,
and there we settled down.
"Before leaving Scotland my husband had allowed me to write to my
father and also to my aunt, informing them of my marriage, but
mentioning neither my husband's name nor the place where we were then
living. If any answers were sent, they were to be addressed to me
under my maiden name at one of the London district post-offices. When
we reached town my husband sent to the office in question. There was
only one letter for me. It was from my father, and contained, as
enclosures, my letters to himself and to my aunt. His reply was a
cruel one. In it he told me that he had disowned me for ever. That to
him and to my mother I was as though I had never lived; or rather, as
though I had died on my wedding morn. That they had put on mourning
for me, and looked upon me in all respects as one dead. Finally, he
forbade me ever to communicate with him again either by letter or in
any other way.
"This letter cut me to the quick. In what way it affected my husband I
was unable to judge. He read it through in silence, and then tossed it
contemptuously on one side; nor did he ever allude to it in any way
again.
"I had been so accustomed from childhood upward to exist on such a
very small modicum of love that the sting implanted by my father's
letter would have made no enduring wound had the great compensation of
a husband's enduring love been granted me in place of that which I had
lost. It is true that I was married, and that I had a husband who
loved me; but his love was not of that kind on which my heart could
rest as on a rock against which all the storms of life would beat in
vain. Mr. Fairfax, when he married me, meant that his love should be
of the strong and enduring kind; but by what magic at our command
shall we change freestone into granite, or chalk into marble? How
could I blame Mr. Fairfax for the non-possession of a quality which
Nature had utterly denied him? Constancy was a virtue that he might
dimly comprehend, but which he altogether failed to reduce into the
practice of his daily life.
"The pretty castle I had built on my wedding-day proved to be of the
veriest mushroom growth. The enchanted prince who was to have dwelt
happily in it his whole life long, refused to be confined within such
narrow limits, and razed its golden walls to the ground with a sneer.
"However much I might repine in secret for the loss of that which
could never be mine again, I made no complaint in words. I bore all in
proud silence: my husband never heard a single murmur from my lips.
The decay of his love was not a matter of a day or a week. It was
slow, gradual, sure. I sometimes found myself morbidly trying to
calculate how long a time would elapse before its last grains would
vanish as the million that had gone before had vanished, leaving
nothing but cold indifference behind. There was some slight touch of
comfort in after days in knowing that those few last grains were still
mine on that morning when I saw him for the last time.
"We had lived nearly twelve months on the banks of Lucerne. During
that time my husband had made two journeys to London, on both
occasions going alone, and on both occasions being away from me
exactly fourteen days. He never said a word to me as to the nature of
the business which called him away, and I was too proud to ask him.
Although his wife, I knew absolutely nothing respecting his
antecedents, his actual position in society, or what relatives he had
and who they were. I had married him without asking to be enlightened
on such matters, and he took care afterwards that my ignorance should
remain undisturbed. I knew that there was some mystery in the case. He
had told me as much as that when asking me to swear not to reveal the
fact of our marriage to any one without his express sanction. More
than that I did not seek to know. What did it matter to me who or what
this man's relations were, when the love with which he had bound me to
himself was slowly breaking link by link? But what I did secretly
resent was the fact that all letters addressed to him were fetched by
himself personally from the nearest post-office; and that all letters
written by him were written furtively, as it were, so that not a line
of their contents should be seen by me, and were likewise posted by
himself so that no second pair of eyes should see how they were
addressed.
"At length there came a day when Mr. Fairfax received a letter which
seemed to trouble him more than any he had ever received before during
the brief time I had been his wife. I had no means of judging by whom
it was written. He read it over at least twenty times, and each time
its perusal seemed to leave him more puzzled than he had been before.
Then he put it away, and I did not see it again. But during the two
days that followed before he answered it there was something in his
manner which told me how deeply that letter was centred in his
thoughts. Two or three days still later he announced to me that he was
going on a sketching expedition, and that he might be away for a
couple of weeks. It was not the first time he had made a similar
excuse for leaving me, but he had never before been away for so long a
time. Whenever Mr. Fairfax was absent, a certain Signora Trachini, the
widow of a poor Italian gentleman, came and kept me company at the
villa till his return. This time also she came with her needles, and
her immense balls of cotton, and her well-thumbed breviary. Then my
husband, having packed up all things requisite for his expedition,
bade me a more than ordinarily affectionate farewell, and left me. I
watched him down the winding road that leads to the lake, a peasant
trudging behind with his luggage. At the corner where the large orange
tree grows, he turned and waved his hand. And that was the last that I
ever saw of Edmund Fairfax."