ELLEN AND MARY
I NOW found myself in the strangest position. What was I to do? Was I
to go to Ellen at once and say plainly, “I have ceased to care for you”?
I did what all weak people do.
I wished that destiny would take the matter out of my hands. I would
have given the world if I could have heard that Ellen was fonder of
somebody else than me, although the moment the thought came to me I saw
its baseness. But destiny was determined to try me to the uttermost, and
make the task as difficult for me as it could be made.
It was Thursday when I arrived, and somehow or other—how I do not know—I
found myself on Thursday afternoon at her house. She was very pleased to
see me, for many reasons. My last letters had been doubtful and the time
for our marriage, as she at least thought, was at hand. I, on my part,
could not but return the usual embrace, but after the first few words
were over there was a silence, and she noticed that I did not look well.
Anxiously she asked me what was the matter. I said that something had
been upon my mind for a long time, which I thought it my duty to tell
her. I then went on to say that I felt she ought to know what had
happened. When we were first engaged we both professed the same faith.
From that faith I had gradually departed, and it seemed to me that it
would be wicked if she were not made acquainted before she took a step
which was irrevocable. This was true, but it was not quite all the
truth, and with a woman’s keenness she saw at once everything that was in
me. She broke out instantly with a sob—
“Oh, Rough!”—a nickname she had given me—“I know what it all means—you
want to get rid of me.”
God help me, if I ever endure greater anguish than I did then. I could
not speak, much less could I weep, and I sat and watched her for some
minutes in silence. My first impulse was to retract, to put my arms
round her neck, and swear that whatever I might be, Deist or Atheist,
nothing should separate me from her. Old associations, the thought of
the cruel injustice put upon her, the display of an emotion which I had
never seen in her before, almost overmastered me, and why I did not yield
I do not know. Again and again have I failed to make out what it is
which, in moments of extreme peril, has restrained me from making some
deadly mistake, when I have not been aware of the conscious exercise of
any authority of my own. At last I said—
“Ellen, what else was I to do? I cannot help my conversion to another
creed. Supposing you had found out that you had married a Unitarian and
I had never told you!”
“Oh, Rough! you are not a Unitarian, you don’t love me,” and she sobbed
afresh.
I could not plead against hysterics. I was afraid she would get ill. I
thought nobody was in the house, and I rushed across the passage to get
her some stimulants. When I came back her father was in the room. He
was my aversion—a fussy, conceited man, who always prated about “my
daughter” to me in a tone which was very repulsive—just as if she were
his property, and he were her natural protector against me.
“Mr. Rutherford,” he cried, “what is the matter with my daughter? What
have you said to her?”
“I don’t think, sir, I am bound to tell you. It is a matter between
Ellen and myself.”
“Mr. Rutherford, I demand an explanation. Ellen is mine. I am her
father.”
“Excuse me, sir, if I desire not to have a scene here just now. Ellen is
unwell. When she recovers she will tell you. I had better leave,” and I
walked straight out of the house.
Next morning I had a letter from her father to say, that whether I was a
Unitarian or not, my behaviour to Ellen showed I was bad enough to be
one. Anyhow, he had forbidden her all further intercourse with me. When
I had once more settled down in my solitude, and came to think over what
had happened, I felt the self-condemnation of a criminal without being
able to accuse myself of a crime. I believe with Miss Arbour that it is
madness for a young man who finds out he has made a blunder, not to set
it right; no matter what the wrench may be. But that Ellen was a victim
I do not deny. If any sin, however, was committed against her, it was
committed long before our separation. It was nine-tenths mistake and
one-tenth something more heinous; and the worst of it is, that while
there is nothing which a man does which is of greater consequence than
the choice of a woman with whom he is to live, there is nothing he does
in which he is more liable to self-deception.
On my return I heard that Mardon was ill, and that probably he would die.
During my absence a contested election for the county had taken place,
and our town was one of the polling-places. The lower classes were
violently Tory. During the excitement of the contest the mob had set
upon Mardon as he was going to his work, and had reviled him as a
Republican and an Atheist. By way of proving their theism they had
cursed him with many oaths, and had so sorely beaten him that the shock
was almost fatal. I went to see him instantly, and found him in much
pain, believing that he would not get better, but perfectly peaceful.
I knew that he had no faith in immortality, and I was curious beyond
measure to see how he would encounter death without such a faith; for the
problem of death, and of life after death, was still absorbing me even to
the point of monomania. I had been struggling as best I could to protect
myself against it, but with little success. I had long since seen the
absurdity and impossibility of the ordinary theories of hell and heaven.
I could not give up my hope in a continuance of life beyond the grave,
but the moment I came to ask myself how, I was involved in
contradictions. Immortality is not really immortality of the person
unless the memory abides and there be a connection of the self of the
next world with the self here, and it was incredible to me that there
should be any memories or any such connection after the dissolution of
the body; moreover, the soul, whatever it may be, is so intimately one
with the body, and is affected so seriously by the weaknesses, passions,
and prejudices of the body, that without it my soul would not be myself,
and the fable of the resurrection of the body, of this same brain and
heart, was more than I could ever swallow in my most orthodox days.
But the greatest difficulty was the inability to believe that the
Almighty intended to preserve all the mass of human beings, all the
countless millions of barbaric, half-bestial forms which, since the
appearance of man, had wandered upon the earth, savage or civilised. Is
it like Nature’s way to be so careful about individuals, and is it to be
supposed that, having produced, millions of years ago, a creature
scarcely nobler than the animals he tore with his fingers, she should
take pains to maintain him in existence for evermore? The law of the
universe everywhere is rather the perpetual rise from the lower to the
higher; an immortality of aspiration after more perfect types; a
suppression and happy forgetfulness of its comparative failures.
There was nevertheless an obstacle to the acceptance of this negation in
a faintness of heart which I could not overcome. Why this ceaseless
struggle, if in a few short years I was to be asleep for ever? The
position of mortal man seemed to me infinitely tragic. He is born into
the world, beholds its grandeur and beauty, is filled with unquenchable
longings, and knows that in a few inevitable revolutions of the earth he
will cease. More painful still; he loves somebody, man or woman, with a
surpassing devotion; he is so lost in his love that he cannot endure a
moment without it; and when he sees it pass away in death, he is told
that it is extinguished—that that heart and mind absolutely are _not_.
It was always a weakness with me that certain thoughts preyed on me. I
was always singularly feeble in laying hold of an idea, and in the
ability to compel myself to dwell upon a thing for any lengthened period
in continuous exhaustive reflection. But, nevertheless, ideas would
frequently lay hold of me with such relentless tenacity that I was
passive in their grasp. So it was about this time with death and
immortality, and I watched eagerly Mardon’s behaviour when the end had to
be faced. As I have said, he was altogether calm. I did not like to
question him while he was so unwell, because I knew that a discussion
would arise which I could not control, and it might disturb him, but I
would have given anything to understand what was passing in his mind.
During his sickness I was much impressed by Mary’s manner of nursing him.
She was always entirely wrapped up in her father, so much so, that I had
often doubted if she could survive him; but she never revealed any trace
of agitation. Under the pressure of the calamity which had befallen her,
she showed rather increased steadiness, and even a cheerfulness which
surprised me. Nothing went wrong in the house. Everything was perfectly
ordered, perfectly quiet, and she rose to a height of which I had never
suspected her capable, while her father’s stronger nature was allowed to
predominate. She was absolutely dependent on him. If he did not get
well she would be penniless, and I could not help thinking that with the
like chance before me, to say nothing of my love for him and anxiety lest
he should die, I should be distracted, and lose my head; more especially
if I had to sit by his bed, and spend sleepless nights such as fell to
her lot. But she belonged to that class of natures which, although
delicate and fragile, rejoice in difficulty. Her grief for her father
was exquisite, but it was controlled by a sense of her responsibility.
The greater the peril, the more complete was her self-command.
To the surprise of everybody Mardon got better. His temperate habits
befriended him in a manner which amazed his more indulgent neighbours,
who were accustomed to hot suppers, and whisky-and-water after them.
Meanwhile I fell into greater difficulties than ever in my ministry. I
wonder now that I was not stopped earlier. I was entirely unorthodox,
through mere powerlessness to believe, and the catalogue of the articles
of faith to which I might be said really to subscribe was very brief. I
could no longer preach any of the dogmas which had always been preached
in the chapel, and I strove to avoid a direct conflict by taking
Scripture characters, amplifying them from the hints in the Bible, and
neglecting what was supernatural. That I was allowed to go on for so
long was mainly due to the isolation of the town and the ignorance of my
hearers. Mardon and his daughter came frequently to hear me, and this, I
believe, finally roused suspicion more than any doctrine expounded from
the pulpit. One Saturday morning there appeared the following letter in
the _Sentinel_:
“SIR,—Last Sunday evening I happened to stray into a chapel not a
hundred miles from Water Lane. Sir, it was a lovely evening, and
‘The glorious stars on high,
Set like jewels in the sky,’
were circling their courses, and, with the moon, irresistibly
reminded me of that blood which was shed for the remission of sins.
Sir, with my mind attuned in that direction I entered the chapel. I
hoped to hear something of that Rock of Ages in which, as the poet
sings, we shall wish to hide ourselves in years to come. But, sir, a
young man, evidently a young man, occupied the pulpit, and great was
my grief to find that the tainted flood of human philosophy had
rolled through the town and was withering the truth as it is in
Christ Jesus. Years ago that pulpit sent forth no uncertain sound,
and the glorious gospel was proclaimed there—not a _German gospel_,
sir—of our depravity and our salvation through Christ Jesus. Sir, I
should like to know what the dear departed who endowed that chapel,
and are asleep in the Lord in that burying-ground, would say if they
were to rise from their graves and sit in those pews again and hear
what I heard—a sermon which might have been a week-day lecture. Sir,
as I was passing through the town, I could not feel that I had done
my duty without announcing to you the fact as above stated, and had
not raised a humble warning from—
Sir, Yours truly,
“A CHRISTIAN TRAVELLER.”
Notwithstanding the transparent artifice of the last paragraph, there was
no doubt that the author of this precious production was Mr. Snale, and I
at once determined to tax him with it. On the Monday morning I called on
him, and found him in his shop.
“Mr. Snale,” I said, “I have a word or two to say to you.”
“Certainly, sir. What a lovely day it is! I hope you are very well,
sir. Will you come upstairs?”
But I declined to go upstairs, as it was probable I might meet Mrs. Snale
there. So I said that we had better go into the counting-house, a little
place boxed off at the end of the shop, but with no door to it. As soon
as we got in I began.
“Mr. Snale, I have been much troubled by a letter which has appeared in
last week’s _Sentinel_. Although disguised, it evidently refers to me,
and to be perfectly candid with you, I cannot help thinking you wrote
it.”
“Dear me, sir, may I ask _why_ you think so?”
“The internal evidence, Mr. Snale, is overwhelming; but if you did not
write it, perhaps you will be good enough to say so.”
Now Mr. Snale was a coward, but with a peculiarity which I have marked in
animals of the rat tribe. He would double and evade as long as possible,
but if he found there was no escape, he would turn and tear and fight to
the last extremity.
“Mr. Rutherford, that is rather—ground of an, of an—what shall I say?—of
an assumptive nature on which to make such an accusation, and I am not
obliged to deny every charge which you may be pleased to make against
me.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Snale, do you then consider what I have said is an
accusation and charge? Do you think that it was wrong to write such a
letter?”
“Well, sir, I cannot exactly say that it was; but I must say, sir, that I
do think it peculiar of you, peculiar of you, sir, to come here and
attack one of your friends, who, I am sure, has always showed you so much
kindness—to attack him, sir, with no proof.”
Now Mr. Snale had not openly denied his authorship. But the use of the
word “friend” was essentially a lie—just one of those lies which, by
avoiding the form of a lie, have such a charm for a mind like his. I was
roused to indignation.
“Mr. Snale, I will give you the proof which you want, and then you shall
judge for yourself. The letter contains two lines of a hymn which you
have misquoted. You made precisely that blunder in talking to the
Sunday-school children on the Sunday before the letter appeared. You
will remember that in accordance with my custom to visit the
Sunday-school occasionally, I was there on that Sunday afternoon.”
“Well, sir, I’ve not denied I did write it.”
“Denied you did write it!” I exclaimed, with gathering passion; “what do
you mean by the subterfuge about your passing through the town and by
your calling me your friend a minute ago? What would you have thought if
anybody had written anonymously to the _Sentinel_, and had accused you of
selling short measure? You would have said it was a libel, and you would
also have said that a charge of that kind ought to be made publicly and
not anonymously. You seem to think, nevertheless, that it is no sin to
ruin me anonymously.”
“Mr. Rutherford, I _am_ sure I am your friend. I wish you well, sir,
both here”—and Mr. Snale tried to be very solemn—“and in the world to
come. With regard to the letter, I don’t see it as you do, sir. But,
sir, if you are going to talk in this tone, I would advise you to be
careful. We have heard, sir”—and here Mr. Snale began to simper and grin
with an indescribably loathsome grimace—“that some of your acquaintances
in your native town are of opinion that you have not behaved quite so
well as you should have done to a certain young lady of your
acquaintance; and what is more, we have marked with pain here, sir, your
familiarity with an atheist and his daughter, and we have noticed their
coming to chapel, and we have also noticed a change in your doctrine
since these parties attended there.”
At the word “daughter” Mr. Snale grinned again, apparently to somebody
behind me, and I found that one of his shopwomen had entered the
counting-house, unobserved by me, while this conversation was going on,
and that she was smirking in reply to Mr. Snale’s signals. In a moment
the blood rushed to my brain. I was as little able to control myself as
if I had been shot suddenly down a precipice.
“Mr. Snale, you are a contemptible scoundrel and a liar.”
The effort on him was comical. He cried:
“What, sir!—what do you mean, sir?—a minister of the gospel—if you were
not, I would—a liar”—and he swung round hastily on the stool on which he
was sitting, to get off and grasp a yard-measure which stood against the
fireplace. But the stool slipped, and he came down ignominiously. I
waited till he got up, but as he rose a carriage stopped at the door, and
he recognised one of his best customers. Brushing the dust off his
trousers, and smoothing his hair, he rushed out without his hat, and in a
moment was standing obsequiously on the pavement, bowing to his patron.
I passed him in going out, but the oily film of subserviency on his face
was not broken for an instant.
When I got home I bitterly regretted what had happened. I never regret
anything more than the loss of self-mastery. I had been betrayed, and
yet I could not for the life of me see how the betrayal could have been
prevented. It was upon me so suddenly, that before a moment had been
given me for reflection, the words were out of my mouth. I was
distinctly conscious that the _I_ had not said those words. They had
been spoken by some other power working in me which was beyond my reach.
Nor could I foresee how to prevent such a fall for the future. The only
advice, even now, which I can give to those who comprehend the bitter
pangs of such self-degradation as passion brings, is to watch the first
risings of the storm, and to say “Beware; be watchful,” at the least
indication of a tempest. Yet, after every precaution, we are at the
mercy of the elements, and in an instant the sudden doubling of a cape
may expose us, under a serene sky, to a blast which, taking us with all
sails spread, may overset us and wreck us irretrievably.
My connection with the chapel was now obviously at an end. I had no mind
to be dragged before a church meeting, and I determined to resign. After
a little delay I wrote a letter to the deacons, explaining that I had
felt a growing divergence from the theology taught heretofore in Water
Lane, and I wished consequently to give up my connection with them. I
received an answer stating that my resignation had been accepted; I
preached a farewell sermon; and I found myself one Monday morning with a
quarter’s salary in my pocket, a few bills to pay, and a blank outlook.
What was to be done? My first thought was towards Unitarianism, but when
I came to cast up the sum-total of what I was assured, it seemed so
ridiculously small that I was afraid. The occupation of a merely
miscellaneous lecturer had always seemed to me very poor. I could not
get up Sunday after Sunday and retail to people little scraps suggested
by what I might have been studying during the week; and with regard to
the great subjects—for the exposition of which the Christian minister
specially exists—how much did I know about them? The position of a
minister who has a gospel to proclaim; who can go out and tell men what
they are to do to be saved, was intelligible; but not so the position of
a man who had no such gospel.
What reason for continuance as a preacher could I claim? Why should
people hear me rather than read books? I was alarmed to find, on making
my reckoning, that the older I got the less I appeared to believe.
Nakeder and nakeder had I become with the passage of every year, and I
trembled to anticipate the complete emptiness to which before long I
should be reduced.
What the dogma of immortality was to me I have already described, and
with regard to God I was no better. God was obviously not a person in
the clouds, and what more was really firm under my feet than this—that
the universe is governed by immutable laws? These laws were not what is
commonly understood as God. Nor could I discern any ultimate tendency in
them. Everything was full of contradiction. On the one hand was
infinite misery; on the other there were exquisite adaptations producing
the highest pleasure; on the one hand the mystery of life-long disease,
and on the other the equal mystery of the unspeakable glory of the
sunrise on a summer’s morning over a quiet summer sea.
I happened to hear once an atheist discoursing on the follies of theism.
If he had made the world, he would have made it much better. He would
not have racked innocent souls with years of torture, that tyrants might
live in splendour. He would not have permitted the earthquake to swallow
up thousands of harmless mortals, and so forth. But, putting aside all
dependence upon the theory of a coming rectification of such wrongs as
these, the atheist’s argument was shallow enough.
It would have been easy to show that a world such as he imagines is
unthinkable directly we are serious with our conception of it. On
whatever lines the world may be framed, there must be distinction,
difference, a higher and a lower; and the lower, relatively to the
higher, must always be an evil. The scale upon which the higher and
lower both are makes no difference. The supremest bliss would not be
bliss if it were not definable bliss—that is to say, in the sense that it
has limits, marking it out from something else not so supreme. Perfectly
uninterrupted, infinite light, without shadow, is a physical absurdity.
I see a thing because it is lighted, but also because of the differences
of light, or, in other words, because of shade, and without shade the
universe would be objectless, and in fact invisible. The atheist was
dreaming of shadowless light, a contradiction in terms. Mankind may be
improved, and the improvement may be infinite, and yet good and evil must
exist. So with death and life. Life without death is not life, and
death without life is equally impossible.
But though all this came to me, and was not only a great comfort to me,
but prevented any shallow prating like that to which I listened from this
lecturer, it could not be said that it was a gospel from which to derive
apostolic authority. There remained morals. I could become an
instructor of morality. I could warn tradesmen not to cheat, children to
honour their parents, and people generally not to lie. The mission was
noble, but I could not feel much enthusiasm for it, and more than this,
it was a fact that reformations in morals have never been achieved by
mere directions to be good, but have always been the result of an
enthusiasm for some City of God, or some supereminent person. Besides,
the people whom it was most necessary to reach would not be the people
who would, unsolicited, visit a Unitarian meeting-house. As for a
message of negations, emancipating a number of persons from the dogma of
the Trinity or future punishment, and spending my strength in merely
demonstrating the nonsense of orthodoxy, my soul sickened at the very
thought of it. Wherein would men be helped, and wherein should I be
helped?
There were only two persons in the town who had ever been of any service
to me. One was Miss Arbour, and the other was Mardon. But I shrank from
Miss Arbour, because I knew that my troubles had never been hers. She
belonged to a past generation, and as to Mardon, I never saw him without
being aware of the difficulty of accepting any advice from him. He was
perfectly clear, perfectly secular, and was so definitely shaped and
settled, that his line of conduct might always be predicted beforehand
with certainty. I knew very well what he thought about preaching, and
what he would tell me to do, or rather, what he would tell me not to do.
Nevertheless, after all, I was a victim to that weakness which impels us
to seek the assistance of others when we know that what they offer will
be of no avail. Accordingly, I called on him. Both he and Mary were at
home, and I was received with more than usual cordiality. He knew
already that I had resigned, for the news was all over the town. I said
I was in great perplexity.
“The perplexities of most persons arise,” said Mardon, “as yours probably
arise, from not understanding exactly what you want to do. For one
person who stumbles and falls with a perfectly distinct object to be
attained, I have known a score whose disasters are to be attributed to
their not having made themselves certain what their aim is. You do not
know what you believe; consequently you do not know how to act.”
“What would you do if you were in my case?”
“Leave the whole business and prefer the meanest handicraft. You have no
right to be preaching anything doubtful. You are aware what my creed is.
I profess no belief in God, and no belief in what hangs upon it. Try and
name now, any earnest conviction you possess, and see whether you have a
single one which I have not got.”
“I _do_ believe in God.”
“There is nothing in that statement. What do you believe about Him?—that
is the point. You will find that you believe nothing, in truth, which I
do not also believe of the laws which govern the universe and man.”
“I believe in an intellect of which these laws are the expression.”
“Now what kind of an intellect can that be? You can assign to it no
character in accordance with its acts. It is an intellect, if it be an
intellect at all, which will swallow up a city, and will create the music
of Mozart for me when I am weary; an intellect which brings to birth His
Majesty King George IV., and the love of an affectionate mother for her
child; an intellect which, in the person of a tender girl, shows an
exquisite conscience, and in the person of one or two religious creatures
whom I have known, shows a conscience almost inverted. I have always
striven to prove to my theological friends that their mere affirmation of
God is of no consequence. They may be affirming anything or nothing.
The question, the all-important question is, _What_ can be affirmed about
Him?”
“Your side of the argument naturally admits of a more precise statement
than mine. I cannot encompass God with a well-marked definition, but for
all that, I believe in Him. I know all that may be urged against the
belief, but I cannot help thinking that the man who looks upon the stars,
or the articulation of a leaf, is irresistibly impelled, unless he has
been corrupted by philosophy, to say, There is intellect there. It is
the instinct of the child and of the man.”
“I don’t think so; but grant it, and again I ask, _What_ intellect is
it?”
“Again I say, I do not know.”
“Then why dispute? Why make such a fuss about it?”
“It really seems to me of immense importance whether you see this
intellect or not, although you say it is of no importance. It appears to
be of less importance than it really is, because I do not think that even
you ever empty the universe of intellect. I believe that mind never
worships anything but mind, and that you worship it when you admire the
level bars of cloud over the setting sun. You think you eject mind, but
you do not. I can only half imagine a belief which looks upon the world
as a mindless blank, and if I could imagine it, it would be depressing in
the last degree to me. I know that I have mind, and to live in a
universe in which my mind is answered by no other would be unbearable.
Better any sort of intelligence than none at all. But, as I have just
said, your case admits of plainer statement than mine. You and I have
talked this matter over before, and I have never gained a logical victory
over you. Often I have felt thoroughly prostrated by you, and yet, when
I have left you, the old superstition has arisen unsubdued. I do not
know how it is, but I always feel that upon this, as upon many other
subjects, I never can really speak myself. An unshapen thought presents
itself to me, I look at it, and I do all in my power to give it body and
expression, but I cannot. I am certain that there is something truer and
deeper to be said about the existence of God than anything I have said,
and what is more, I am certain of the presence of this something in me,
but I cannot lift it to the light.”
“Ah, you are now getting into the region of sentiment, and I am unable to
accompany you. When my friends go into the clouds, I never try to follow
them.”
All this time Mary had been sitting in the arm-chair against the
fireplace in her usual attitude, resting her head on her hand and with
her feet crossed one over the other on the fender. She had been
listening silently and motionless. She now closed her eyes and said—
“Father, father, it is not true.”
“What is not true?”
“I do not mean that what you have said about theology is not true, but
you make Mr. Rutherford believe you are what you are not. Mr.
Rutherford, father sometimes tells us he has no sentiment, but you must
take no notice of him when he talks in that way. I always think of our
visit to the seaside two years ago. The railway-station was in a
disagreeable part of the town, and when we came out we walked along a
dismal row of very plain-looking houses. There were cards in the window
with ‘Lodgings’ written on them, and father wanted to go in to ask the
terms. I said that I did not wish to stay in such a dull street, but
father could not afford to pay for a sea view, and so we went in to
inquire. We then found that what we thought were the fronts of the
houses were the backs, and that the fronts faced the bay. They had
pretty gardens on the other side, and a glorious sunny prospect over the
ocean.”
Mardon laughed and said—
“Ah, Mary, there is no sea front here, and no garden.”
I took up my hat and said I must go. Both pressed me to stop, but I
declined. Mardon urged me again, and at last said—
“I believe you’ve never once heard Mary sing.”
Mary protested, and pleaded that as they had no piano, Mr. Rutherford
would not care for her poor voice without any accompaniment. But I, too,
protested that I should, and she got out the “Messiah.” Her father took
a tuning-fork out of his pocket, and having struck it, Mary rose and
began, “He was despised.” Her voice was not powerful, but it was pure
and clear, and she sang with that perfect taste which is begotten solely
of a desire to honour the Master. The song always had a profound charm
for me. Partly this was due to association. The words and tones, which
have been used to embody their emotions by those whom we have loved, are
doubly expressive when we use them to embody our own. The song is potent
too, because with utmost musical tenderness and strength it reveals the
secret of the influence of the story of Jesus. Nobody would be bold
enough to cry, _That too is my case_, and yet the poorest and the
humblest soul has a right to the consolation that Jesus was a man of
sorrows and acquainted with grief.
For some reason or the other, or for many reasons, Mary’s voice wound
itself into the very centre of my existence. I seemed to be listening to
the tragedy of all human worth and genius. The ball rose in my throat,
the tears mounted to my eyes, and I had to suppress myself rigidly.
Presently she ceased. There was silence for a moment. I looked round,
and saw that Mardon’s face was on the table, buried in his hands. I felt
that I had better go, for the presence of a stranger, when the heart is
deeply stirred, is an intrusion. I noiselessly left the room, and Mary
followed. When we got to the door she said: “I forgot that mother used
to sing that song. I ought to have known better.” Her own eyes were
full; I thought the pressure of her hand as she bade me good-bye was a
little firmer than usual, and as we parted an over-mastering impulse
seized me. I lifted her hand to my lips; without giving her time to
withdraw it, I gave it one burning kiss, and passed out into the street.
It was pouring with rain, and I had neither overcoat nor umbrella, but I
heeded not the heavens, and not till I got home to my own fireless, dark,
solitary lodgings, did I become aware of any contrast between the sphere
into which I had been exalted and the earthly commonplace world by which
I was surrounded.