The Mighty and the Merciful are one;
The morning dew that scarcely bends the flowers,
Exhal’d to heaven, becomes the thunderbolt
That strikes the tree at noon.
Judas Iscariot: a Drama.
There are moments in a man’s life when all the forces of life and
society seem to conspire for his destruction; when, look which way he
will, he sees no loophole for escape; when every step he takes forward
seems a step downward towards some pitiless Inferno, and when to make
even one step backward is impossible, because the precipice down which
he has been thrust seems steep as a wall. Yet there is still hope for
such a man, if his own conscience is not in revolt against him; for that
conscience, like a very angel, may uplift him by the hair and hold him
miraculously from despair and death. Woe to him, however, if he has
no such living help! Beyond that, there is surely no succour for him,
beyond the infinite mercy, the cruel kindness, of his avenging God.
The moment of which I speak had come to Ambrose Bradley.
Even in the very heyday of his pride, when he thought himself strong
enough to walk alone, without faith, almost without vital belief, his
sins had found him out, and he saw the Inferno waiting at his feet.
He knew that there was no escape. He saw the powers of evil arrayed on
every side against him. And cruellest of all the enemies leagued for his
destruction, was the conscience which might have been his sweetest and
surest friend.
It was too late now for regrets, it was too late now to reshape his
course. Had he only exhibited a man’s courage, and, instead of snatching
an ignoble happiness, confided the whole truth to the woman he loved,
she might have pitied and forgiven him; but he had accepted her love
under a lie, and to confide the truth to her now would simply be to make
a confession of his moral baseness. He dared not, could not, tell her;
yet he knew that detection was inevitable. Madly, despairingly, he
wrestled with his agony, and soon lay prostrate before it, a strong man
self-stripped of his spiritual and moral strength.
Not that he was tamely acquiescent; not that he accepted his fate as
just. On the contrary, his whole spirit rose in revolt and indignation.
He had tried to serve God--so at least he assured himself; he had tried
to become a living lesson and example to a hard and unbelieving world;
he had tried to upbuild again a Temple where men might worship in all
honesty and freedom; and what was the result? For a slight fault, a
venial blunder, of his own youth, he was betrayed to a punishment which
threatened to be everlasting.
His intellect rebelled at the idea.
With failing strength he tried to balance himself on the satanic
foothold of revolt. His doubts thickened around him like a cloud. If
there was a just God, if there was a God at all, why had he made such a
world?
In simple truth, the man’s fatal position was entirely the consequence
of his once lack of moral courage.
He had missed the supreme moment, he had lacked the supreme sanction,
which would have saved him, even had his danger been twentyfold more
desperate than it had been. Instead of standing erect in his own
strength, and defying the Evil One, who threatened to hurl him down and
destroy him, he had taken the Evil One’s hand and accepted its support.
Yes, the devil had helped him, but at what a cost!
‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’ he should have said. It was the sheerest
folly to say it now.
He cowered in terror at the thought of Alma’s holy indignation.
He dreaded not her anger, which he could have borne, but her
disenchantment, which he could not bear.
Her trust in him had been so absolute, her self-surrender so supreme;
but its motive had been his goodness, her faith in his unsullied truth.
She had been his handmaid, as she had called herself, and had trusted
herself to him, body and soul. So complete had been his intellectual
authority over her, that even had he told her his secret and thereupon
assured her that he was morally a free man, though legally fettered,
she would have accepted his genial pleading and still have given him
her love. He was quite sure of that. But he had chosen a course of mere
deception, he had refused to make her his confidant, and she had married
him in all faith and fervour, believing there was no corner in all his
heart where he had anything to conceal.
It was just possible that she might still forgive him; it was simply
impossible that she could ever revere and respect him, as she hitherto
had done.
Does he who reads these lines quite realise what it is to fall from the
pure estate of a loving woman’s worship? Has he ever been so throned
in a loving heart as to understand how kingly is the condition--how
terrible the fall from that sweet power? So honoured and enthroned, he
is still a king, though he is a beggar of all men’s charity, though he
has not a roof to cover his head; so dethroned and fallen, he is still a
beggar, though all the world proclaims him king.
*****
Mephistopheles Minor, in the shape of gay George Craik, junior,
scarcely slept on his discovery, or rather on his suspicions. He was now
perfectly convinced that there was some mysterious connection between
the clergyman and Mrs. Montmorency; and as the actress refused for
the time being to lend herself to any sort of open persecution, he
determined to act on his own responsibility. So he again canvassed Miss
Destrange and the other light ladies of his acquaintance, and receiving
from them further corroboration of the statement that Mrs. Montmorency
had been previously married, he had no doubt whatever that Ambrose
Bradley was the man who had once stood to her in the relation of a
husband.
Armed with this information, he sought out his father on the Monday
morning, found him at his club, told him of all he knew, and asked his
advice.
‘My only wish, you know,’ he explained, ‘is to save Alma from that man,
who is evidently a scoundrel. So I thought I would come to you at once.
The question is, what is to be done?’
‘It’s a horrible complication,’ said the baronet, honestly shocked. ‘Do
you actually mean to tell me that you suspect an improper relationship
between Alma and this infernal infidel?’
‘I shouldn’t like to go as far as that; but they were seen travelling
together, like man and wife, in France.’
‘Good heavens! It is incredible.’
‘I should like to shoot the fellow,’ cried George furiously. ‘And I
would, too, if this was a duelling country. Shooting’s too good for him.
He ought to be hung!’
The upshot of the conversation was that father and son determined to
visit Alma at once together, and to make one last attempt to bring her
to reason. At a little after midday they were at her door. The baronet
stalked in past the servant, with an expression of the loftiest moral
indignation.
‘Tell Miss Craik that I wish to see her at once,’ he said.
It was some minutes before Alma appeared. When she did so, attired in
a pink morning _peignoir_ of the most becoming fashion, her face was
bright as sunshine; but it became clouded directly she met her uncle’s
eyes. She saw at a glance that he had come on an unpleasant errand.
George Craik sulked in a corner, waiting for his father to conduct the
attack.
‘What has brought you over so early, uncle?’ she demanded. ‘I hope
George has not been talking nonsense to you about me. He has been here
before on the same errand, and I had to show him the door.’
‘George has your interest at heart! returned the baronet, fuming; ‘and
if you doubt his disinterestedness, perhaps you will do me the justice
to believe that _I_ am your true friend, as well as your relation. Now
my brother is gone, I am your nearest protector. It is enough to make
your father rise in his grave to hear what I have heard.’
‘What have you heard?’ cried Alma, turning pale with indignation. ‘Don’t
go too far, uncle, or I shall quarrel with you as well as George; and I
should be sorry for that.’
‘Will you give me an explanation of your conduct--yes or no?--or do
you refuse my right to question you? Remember, Alma, the honour of our
family--your father’s honour--is in question.’
‘How absurd you are!’ cried Alma, with a forced laugh. ‘But there, I
will try to keep my temper. What is it that you want to know?’
And she sat down quietly, with folded hands, as if waiting to be
interrogated.
‘Is it the fact, as I am informed, that you and Mr. Bradley were seen
travelling alone together, some weeks ago, in Normandy?’
Alma hesitated before speaking; then, smiling to herself, she said,
‘Suppose it is true, uncle--what then?’
The baronet’s face went red as crimson, and he paced furiously up and
down the room.
‘What then? Good heavens, can you ask that question? Do you know that
your character is at stake? Then you do not deny it?’
‘No; for it is true.’
Father and son looked at one another; then the baronet proceeded:
‘Then all the rest is true. You are that man’s mistress!’
The shot struck home, but Alma was prepared for it, and without changing
her attitude in the least, she quietly replied:
‘No, uncle; I am _that man’s wife!_’
‘His wife!’ ejaculated father and son in the same breath.
‘Yes. We were married some weeks ago, and after the wedding, went for
a few days to France. There! I intended to keep the secret, till I was
free to tell it; but gross, cruel importunity has wrung it from me. Do
not think, however,’ she continued, rising to her feet and exchanging
her self-possessed manner for one of angry wrath, ‘that I shall ever
forgive you, either of you, for your shameful suspicions concerning
me. You might have spared me so many insults. You might have known me
better. However, now you know the truth, perhaps you will relieve me
from any further persecution.’
Father and son exchanged another look.
‘Do you actually affirm that you are married?’ exclaimed the baronet.
‘Actually,’ returned the young lady with a sarcastic bow.
Thereupon George Craik sprang to his feet, prepared to deliver the _coup
de grâce_.
‘Tell her the truth, father!’ he exclaimed. ‘Tell her that she is no
more married than I am!’
‘What does he mean?’ cried Alma, looking at her uncle. ‘Is he mad?’
‘He means simply this, Alma,’ said Sir George, after a prompting glance
from his son. ‘If you have gone through the marriage ceremony with this
man, this infidel, you have been shamefully betrayed. The scoundrel was
unable to marry again, if, as we have reason to believe, his first wife
is still living!’
The two men, father and son, had struck their blow boldly but very
cruelly, and it came with full force on the devoted woman’s head. At
first Alma could scarcely believe her ears; she started in her chair,
put out her hands quickly as if to ward off another savage attack, and
then shrank in terror, while every vestige of colour in her cheeks faded
away.
Sir George stood gazing down at her, also greatly agitated, for he
was well-bred enough to feel that the part he was playing was unmanly,
almost cowardly. He had spoken and acted on a mere surmise, and even at
that moment, amidst the storm of his nervous indignation, the horrible
thought flashed upon him that he might be wrong after all.
‘“His first wife is still living!”’ repeated Alma with a quick
involuntary shudder, scarcely able to realise the words. ‘Uncle, what
do you mean? Have _you_ gone mad, as well as George? Of whom are you
speaking? Of--of Mr. Bradley?’
‘Of that abominable man,’ pried the baronet, ‘who, if my information
is correct, and if there is law in the land, shall certainly pay the
penalty of his atrocious crime! Do not think that we blame _you_,’ he
added more gently; ‘no, for you are not to blame. You have been the
dupe, the victim of a villain!’
Like a prisoner sick with terror, yet gathering all his strength about
him to protest against the death-sentence for a crime of which he is
innocent, Alma rose, and trembling violently, still clutching the chair
for support, looked at her uncle.
‘I do not believe one word of what you say! I believe it is an infamous
falsehood. But whether it is true or false, I shall never forgive you in
this world for the words you have spoken to me to-night.’
‘I have only done my duty, Alma!’ returned Sir George, uneasily, moving
as he spoke towards her and reaching out his arms to support her. ‘My
poor child--courage! George and I will protect and save you.’
Hereupon Mephistopheles junior uttered a sullen half-audible murmur,
which was understood to be a solemn promise to punch the fellow’s
head--yes, smash him--on the very earliest opportunity!
‘Don’t touch me!’ exclaimed Alma. ‘Don’t approach me! What is your
authority for this cruel libel on Mr. Bradley? You talk of punishment.
It is you that will be punished, be sure of that, if you cannot justify
so shameful an accusation.’
The two men looked at each other. If, after all, the ground should give
way beneath them! But it was too late to draw back or temporise.
‘Tell her, father,’ said George, with a prompting look.
‘You ask our authority for the statement,’ replied the baronet. ‘My dear
Alma, the thing is past a doubt. We have seen _the_--the _person_.’
‘The person? What person?’
‘Bradley’s _wife!_’
‘He has no wife but me,’ cried Alma. ‘I love him--he is my husband!’
Then, as Sir George shrugged his shoulders pityingly, she leant forward
eagerly, and demanded in quick, spasmodic gasps:--
‘Who is the woman who wrongs my rights? Who is the creature who has
filled you with this falsehood? Who is she? Tell me!’
‘She is at present passing under the name of Montmorency, and is, I
believe, an actress.’
As he spoke, there came suddenly in Alma’s remembrance the vivid picture
of the woman whom she had seen talking with the clergyman in the
vestry, and simultaneously she was conscious of the sickly odour of
scent which had surrounded her like a fume of poison. Alma grew faint.
Some terrible and foreboding presence seemed overpowering her. She
thought of the painted face, the shameless dress and bearing of the
strange woman, of Bradley’s peculiar air of nervous uneasiness, of the
thrill of dislike and repulsion which had run momentarily through her
own frame as she left them together. Overcome by an indescribable and
sickening horror, she put her hand to her forehead, tottered, and seemed
about to fall.
Solicitous and alarmed, the baronet once more approached her as if to
support her. But before he could touch her she had shrunk shuddering
away.
Weak and terrified now, she uttered a despairing moan.
‘Oh! why did you come here to tell me this?’ she cried. ‘Why did you
come here to break my heart and wreck my life? If you had had any pity
or care for me, you would have spared me; you would have left me to
discover my misery for myself, Go now, go; you have done all you can. I
shall soon know for myself whether your cruel tale is false or true.’
‘It is true,’ said Sir George. ‘Do not be unjust, my child. We could
not, knowing what we did, suffer you to remain at the mercy of that man.
Now, be advised. Leave the affair to us, who are devoted to you; we will
see that you are justified, and that the true culprit is punished as he
deserves.’
And the two men made a movement towards the door.
‘Stop!’ cried Alma. ‘What do you intend to do?’
‘Apply for a warrant, and have the scoundrel apprehended without delay.’
‘You will do so at your peril,’ exclaimed Alma, with sudden energy. ‘I
forbid you to interfere between him and me. Yes, I forbid you! Even if
things are as you say--and I will never believe it till I receive the
assurance from his own lips, never!--even if things are as you say, the
wrong is mine, not yours, and I need no one to come between me and the
man I love.’
‘The man you love!’ echoed Sir George in amazement. ‘Alma, this is
infatuation!’
‘I love him, uncle, and love such as mine is not a light thing to be
destroyed by the first breath of calumny or misfortune. What has taken
place is between him and me alone.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ returned her uncle, with a recurrence to his old
anger. ‘Our good name--the honour of the house--is at stake; and if you
are too far lost to consider these, it is my duty, as the head of the
family, to act on your behalf.’
‘Certainly,’ echoed young George between his set teeth.
‘And how would you vindicate them?’ asked Alma, passionately. ‘By
outraging and degrading _me?_ Yes; for if you utter to any other soul
one syllable of this story, you drag my good name in the mire, and
make me the martyr. I need no protection, I ask no justification. If
necessary I can bear my misery, as I have borne my happiness, in silence
and alone.’
‘But,’ persisted Sir George, ‘you will surely let us take some steps
to-------’
‘Whatever I do will be done on my own responsibility. I am my own
mistress. Uncle, you must promise me--you must swear to me--to do
nothing without my will and consent. You can serve me yet; you can show
that you are still capable of kindliness and compassion, by saving me
from proceedings which you would regret, and which I should certainly
not survive.’
Sir George looked at his son in fresh perplexity. In the whirlwind of
his excitement he had hardly taken into calculation the unpleasantness
of a public exposure. True, it would destroy and punish the man, but, on
the other hand, it would certainly bring disgrace on the family. Alma’s
eccentricities, both of opinion and of conduct, which he had held in
very holy horror, would become the theme of the paragraph-maker and the
leader-writer, and the immediate consequence would be to make the name
of Craik ridiculous. So he stammered and hesitated.
George Craik, the younger, however, had none of his father’s scruples.
He cared little or nothing now for his cousin’s reputation. All he
wanted was to expose, smash, pulverise, and destroy Bradley, the man
whom he had always cordially detested, and who had subjected him to
innumerable indignities on the part of his cousin. So, seeing Alma’s
helplessness, and no longer dreading her indignation, he plucked up
heart of grace and took his full part in the discussion.
‘The fellow deserves penal servitude for life,’ he said, ‘and in my
opinion, Alma, it’s your _duty_ to prosecute him. It is the only course
you can take in justice to yourself and your friends. I know it will
be deucedly unpleasant; but not more unpleasant than going through the
Divorce Court, which respectable people do every day.’
‘Silence!’ exclaimed his cousin, turning upon him with tremulous
indignation.
‘Eh? what?’ ejaculated George.
‘I will not discuss Mr. Bradley with _you_. To my uncle I will listen,
because I know he has a good heart, and because he is my dear father’s
brother; but I forbid _you_ to speak to me on the subject. I owe all
this misery and humiliation to you, and you only.’
‘That’s all humbug!’ George began furiously, but his father interposed
and waved him to silence.
‘Alma is excited, naturally excited; in her cooler senses she will
acknowledge that she does you an injustice. Hush, George!--My dear
child,’ he continued, addressing Alma, ‘all my son and I desire to do
is to save you pain. You have been disgracefully misled, and I repeat,
I pity rather than blame you. To be sure you have been a little
headstrong, a little opinionated, and I am afraid the doctrines
promulgated by your evil genius have led you to take too rash a view
of--hum--moral sanctions. Depend upon it, loose ideas in matters of
religion lead, directly and indirectly, to the destruction of morality.
Not that I accuse you of wilful misconduct--Heaven forbid! But you have
erred from want of caution, from, if I may so express it, a lack of
discretion; for you should have been aware that the man that believes in
neither Our Maker nor Our Saviour--an--in short, an infidel--would not
be deterred by any moral consideration from acts of vice and crime.’
This was a long speech, but Alma paid little or no attention to it.
She stood against the mantelpiece, leaning her forehead against it,
and trembling with agony; but she did not cry--the tears would not come
yet--she was still too lost in amazement, pain, and dread.
Suddenly, as Sir George ended, she looked up and said:--
‘The name of this woman, this actress? Where is she to be found?’
‘Her name--as I told you, her assumed name--is Montmorency. George can
give you her address; but I think, on the whole, you had better not see
her.’
‘I _must_,’ replied Alma, firmly.
Sir George glanced at his son, who thereupon took out a notebook and
wrote on one of the leaves, which he tore out and handed to his father.
‘Here is the address,’ said the baronet, passing the paper on to Alma.
She took it without looking at it, and threw it on the mantelpiece.
‘Now pray leave me. But, before you go, promise to do nothing--to keep
this matter secret--until you hear from me. I must first ascertain that
what you say is true.’
‘We will do as you desire, Alma,’ returned Sir George; ‘only I think it
would be better--much better--to let _us_ act for you.’
‘No; I only am concerned. I am not a child, and am able to protect
myself.’
‘Very well,’ said her uncle. ‘But try, my child, to remember that you
have friends who are waiting to serve you. I am heart-broken--George is
heart-broken--at this sad affair. Do nothing rash, I beseech you; and do
not forget, in this hour of humiliation, that there is One above Who can
give you comfort, if you will turn humbly and reverently to _Him!_’
With this parting homily the worthy baronet approached his niece, drew
her to him, and kissed her benignantly on the forehead. But she shrank
away quickly, with a low cry of distress.
‘Do not touch me! Do not speak to me! Leave me now, for God’s sake!’
After a long-drawn sigh, expressive of supreme sympathy and
commiseration, and a prolonged look full of quasi-paternal emotion, Sir
George left the room. George followed, with a muttered ‘Good-night!’ to
which his cousin paid no attention.
Father and son passed out into the street, where the manner of both
underwent a decided change.
‘Well that’s over!’ exclaimed the baronet.
‘The poor girl bears it far better than I expected; for it is a horrible
situation.’
‘Then you mean to do as she tells you,’ said George, ‘and let the
scoundrel alone?’
‘For the time being, yes. After all, Alma is right, and we must
endeavour to avoid a public exposure.’
‘It’s sure to come out. It’s _bigamy_, you know--_Bigamy!_’ lie added,
with more emphasis and a capital letter.
‘So it is--if it is true. At present, you know, we have no proofs
whatever--only suspicions. God bless me! how ridiculous we should look
if the whole thing turns out a mare’s nest after all! Alma will
never forgive us! You really feel convinced that there was a previous
marriage?’
‘I’m sure of it,’ returned George. ‘And, whether or not----’
He did not finish the sentence; but what he added to himself, spitefully
enough, was to the effect that, ‘whether or not,’ he had paid out his
cousin for all her contumelious and persistent snubbing.