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CHAPTER II.
AMONG the guests whom the rector met was a gentleman named
Rambert, a single man of large fortune, well known in the
neighborhood of Penliddy as the owner of a noble country-seat and
the possessor of a magnificent library.
Mr. Rambert (with whom Mr. Carling was well acquainted) greeted
him at the dinner-party with friendly expressions of regret at
the time that had elapsed since they had last seen each other,
and mentioned that he had recently been adding to his collection
of books some rare old volumes of theology, which he thought the
rector might find it useful to look over. Mr. Carling, with the
necessity of finishing his pamphlet uppermost in his mind,
replied, jestingly, that the species of literature which he was
just then most interested in examining happened to be precisely
of the sort which (excepting novels, perhaps) had least affinity
to theological writing. The necessary explanation followed this
avowal as a matter of course, and, to Mr. Carling's great
delight, his friend turned on him gayly with the most surprising
and satisfactory of answers:
"You don't know half the resources of my miles of bookshelves,"
he said, "or you would never have thought of going to London for
what you can get from me. A whole side of one of my rooms
upstairs is devoted to periodical literature. I have reviews,
magazines, and three weekly newspapers, bound, in each case, from
the first number; and, what is just now more to your purpose, I
have the Times for the last fifteen years in huge half-yearly
volumes. Give me the date to-night, and you shall have the volume
you want by two o'clock to-morrow afternoon."
The necessary information was given at once, and, with a great
sense of relief, so far as his literary anxieties were concerned,
Mr. Carling went home early to see what the quieting medicine had
done for his wife.
She had dozed a little, but had not slept. However, she was
evidently better, for she was able to take an interest in the
sayings and doings at the dinner-party, and questioned her
husband about the guests and the conversation with all a woman's
curiosity about the minutest matters. She lay with her face
turned toward him and her eyes meeting his, until the course of
her inquiries drew an answer from him, which informed her of his
fortunate discovery in relation to Mr. Rambert's library, and of
the prospect it afforded of his resuming his labors the next day.
When he mentioned this circumstance, she suddenly turned her head
on the pillow so that her face was hidden from him, and he cou ld
see through the counterpane that the shivering, which he had
observed when her illness had seized her in the morning, had
returned again.
"I am only cold," she said, in a hurried way, with her face under
the clothes.
He rang for the maid, and had a fresh covering placed on the bed.
Observing that she seemed unwilling to be disturbed, he did not
remove the clothes from her face when he wished her goodnight,
but pressed his lips on her head, and patted it gently with his
hand. She shrank at the touch as if it hurt her, light as it was,
and he went downstairs, resolved to send for the doctor again if
she did not get to rest on being left quiet. In less than half an
hour afterward the maid came down and relieved his anxiety by
reporting that her mistress was asleep.
The next morning he found her in better spirits. Her eyes, she
said, felt too weak to bear the light, so she kept the bedroom
darkened. But in other respects she had little to complain of.
After answering her husband's first inquiries, she questioned him
about his plans for the day. He had letters to write which would
occupy him until twelve o'clock. At two o'clock he expected the
volume of the Times to arrive, and he should then devote the
rest of the afternoon to his work. After hearing what his plans
were, Mrs. Carling suggested that he should ride out after he had
done his letters, so as to get some exercise at the fine part of
the day; and she then reminded him that a longer time than usual
had elapsed since he had been to see a certain old pensioner of
his, who had nursed him as a child, and who was now bedridden, in
a village at some distance, called Tringweighton. Although the
rector saw no immediate necessity for making this charitable
visit, the more especially as the ride to the village and back,
and the intermediate time devoted to gossip, would occupy at
least two hours and a half, he assented to his wife's proposal,
perceiving that she urged it with unusual earnestness, and being
unwilling to thwart her, even in a trifle, at a time when she was
ill.
Accordingly, his horse was at the door at twelve precisely.
Impatient to get back to the precious volume of the Times, he
rode so much faster than usual, and so shortened his visit to the
old woman, that he was home again by a quarter past two.
Ascertaining from the servant who opened the door that the volume
had been left by Mr. Rambert's messenger punctually at two, he
ran up to his wife's room to tell her about his visit before he
secluded himself for the rest of the afternoon over his work. On
entering the bedroom he found it still darkened, and he was
struck by a smell of burned paper in it.
His wife (who was now dressed in her wrapper and lying on the
sofa) accounted for the smell by telling him that she had fancied
the room felt close, and that she had burned some paper--being
afraid of the cold air if she opened the window--to fumigate it.
Her eyes were evidently still weak, for she kept her hand over
them while she spoke. After remaining with her long enough to
relate the few trivial events of his ride, Mr. Carling descended
to his study to occupy himself at last with the volume of the
Times.
It lay on his table in the shape of a large flat brown paper
package. On proceeding to undo the covering, he observed that it
had been very carelessly tied up. The strings were crooked and
loosely knotted, and the direction bearing his name and address,
instead of being in the middle of the paper, was awkwardly folded
over at the edge of the volume. However, his business was with
the inside of the parcel; so he tossed away the covering and the
string, and began at once to hunt through the volume for the
particular number of the paper which he wished first to consult.
He soon found it, with the report of the speeches delivered by
the members of the deputation, and the answer returned by the
minister. After reading through the report, and putting a mark in
the place where it occurred, he turned to the next day's number
of the paper, to see what further hints on the subject the
letters addressed to the editor might happen to contain.
To his inexpressible vexation and amazement, he found that one
number of the paper was missing.
He bent the two sides of the volume back, looked closely between
the leaves, and saw immediately that the missing number had been
cut out.
A vague sense of something like alarm began to mingle with his
first feeling of disappointment. He wrote at once to Mr. Rambert,
mentioning the discovery he had just made, and sent the note off
by his groom, with orders to the man to wait for an answer.
The reply with which the servant returned was almost insolent in
the shortness and coolness of its tone. Mr. Rambert had no books
in his library which were not in perfect condition. The volume of
the Times had left his house perfect, and whatever blame might
attach to the mutilation of it rested therefore on other
shoulders than those of the owner.
Like many other weak men, Mr. Carling was secretly touchy on the
subject of his dignity. After reading the note and questioning
his servants, who were certain that the volume had not been
touched till he had opened it, he resolved that the missing
number of the Times should be procured at any expense and
inserted in its place; that the volume should be sent back
instantly without a word of comment; and that no more books from
Mr. Rambert's library should enter his house.
He walked up and down the study considering what first step he
should take to effect the purpose in view. Under the quickening
influence of his irritation, an idea occurred to him, which, if
it had only entered his mind the day before, might probably have
proved the means of saving him from placing himself under an
obligation to Mr. Rambert. He resolved to write immediately to
his bookseller and publisher in London (who knew him well as an
old and excellent customer), mentioning the date of the back
number of the Times that was required, and authorizing the
publisher to offer any reward he judged necessary to any person
who might have the means of procuring it at the office of the
paper or elsewhere. This letter he wrote and dispatched in good
time for the London post, and then went upstairs to see his wife
and to tell her what had happened. Her room was still darkened
and she was still on the sofa. On the subject of the missing
number she said nothing, but of Mr. Rambert and his note she
spoke with the most sovereign contempt. Of course the pompous old
fool was mistaken, and the proper thing to do was to send back
the volume instantly and take no more notice of him.
"It shall be sent back," said Mr. Carling, "but not till the
missing number is replaced." And he then told her what he had
done.
The effect of that simple piece of information on Mrs. Carling
was so extraordinary and so unaccountable that her husband fairly
stood aghast. For the first time since their marriage he saw her
temper suddenly in a flame. She started up from the sofa and
walked about the room as if she had lost her senses, upbraiding
him for making the weakest of concessions to Mr. Rambert's
insolent assumption that the rector was to blame. If she could
only have laid hands on that letter, she would have consulted her
husband's dignity and independence by putting it in the fire! She
hoped and prayed the number of the paper might not be found! In
fact, it was certain that the number, after all these years,
could not possibly be hunted up. The idea of his acknowledging
himself to be in the wrong in that way, when he knew himself to
be in the right! It was almost ridiculous--no, it was quite
ridiculous! And she threw herself back on the sofa, and suddenly
burst out laughing.
At the first word of remonstrance which fell from her husband's
lips her mood changed again in an instant. She sprang up once
more, kissed him passionately, with the tears streaming from her
eyes, and implored him to leave her alone to recover herself. He
quitted the room so seriously alarmed about her that he resolved
to go to the doctor privately and question him on the spot. There
was an unspeakable dread in his mind that the ner vous attack
from which she had been pronounced to be suffering might be a
mere phrase intended to prepare him for the future disclosure of
something infinitely and indescribably worse.
The doctor, on hearing Mr. Carling's report, exhibited no
surprise and held to his opinion. Her nervous system was out of
order, and her husband had been needlessly frightened by a
hysterical paroxysm. If she did not get better in a week, change
of scene might then be tried. In the meantime, there was not the
least cause for alarm.
On the next day she was quieter, but she hardly spoke at all. At
night she slept well, and Mr. Carling's faith in the medical man
revived again.
The morning after was the morning which would bring the answer
from the publisher in London. The rector's study was on the
ground floor, and when he heard the postman's knock, being
especially anxious that morning about his correspondence, he went
out into the hall to receive his letters the moment they were put
on the table.
It was not the footman who had answered the door, as usual, but
Mrs. Carling's maid. She had taken the letters from the postman,
and she was going away with them upstairs.
He stopped her, and asked her why she did not put the letters on
the hall table as usual. The maid, looking very much confused,
said that her mistress had desired that whatever the postman had
brought that morning should be carried up to her room. He took
the letters abruptly from the girl, without asking any more
questions, and went back into his study.
Up to this time no shadow of a suspicion had fallen on his mind.
Hitherto there had been a simple obvious explanation for every
unusual event that had occurred during the last three or four
days; but this last circumstance in connection with the letters
was not to be accounted for. Nevertheless, even now, it was not
distrust of his wife that was busy at his mind--he was too fond
of her and too proud of her to feel it--the sensation was more
like uneasy surprise. He longed to go and question her, and get a
satisfactory answer, and have done with it. But there was a voice
speaking within him that had never made itself heard before--a
voice with a persistent warning in it, that said, Wait; and look
at your letters first.
He spread them out on the table with hands that trembled he knew
not why. Among them was the back number of the Times for which
he had written to London, with a letter from the publisher
explaining the means by which the copy had been procured.
He opened the newspaper with a vague feeling of alarm at finding
that those letters to the editor which he had been so eager to
read, and that perfecting of the mutilated volume which he had
been so anxious to accomplish, had become objects of secondary
importance in his mind. An inexplicable curiosity about the
general contents of the paper was now the one moving influence
which asserted itself within him, he spread open the broad sheet
on the table.
The first page on which his eye fell was the page on the
right-hand side. It contained those very letters--three in
number--which he had once been so anxious to see. He tried to
read them, but no effort could fix his wandering attention. He
looked aside to the opposite page, on the left hand. It was the
page that contained the leading articles.
They were three in number. The first was on foreign politics; the
second was a sarcastic commentary on a recent division in the
House of Lords; the third was one of those articles on social
subjects which have greatly and honorably helped to raise the
reputation of the Times above all contest and all rivalry.
The lines of this third article which first caught his eye
comprised the opening sentence of the second paragraph, and
contained these words:
It appears, from the narrative which will be found in another
part of our columns, that this unfortunate woman married, in the
spring of the year 18--, one Mr. Fergus Duncan, of Glendarn, in
the Highlands of Scotland. . .
The letters swam and mingled together under his eyes before he
could go on to the next sentence. His wife exhibited as an object
for public compassion in the Times newspaper! On the brink of
the dreadful discovery that was advancing on him, his mind reeled
back, and a deadly faintness came over him. There was water on a
side-table--he drank a deep draught of it--roused himself--seized
on the newspaper with both hands, as if it had been a living
thing that could feel the desperate resolution of his grasp, and
read the article through, sentence by sentence, word by word.
The subject was the Law of Divorce, and the example quoted was
the example of his wife.
At that time England stood disgracefully alone as the one
civilized country in the world having a divorce law for the
husband which was not also a divorce law for the wife. The writer
in the Times boldly and eloquently exposed this discreditable
anomaly in the administration of justice; hinted delicately at
the unutterable wrongs suffered by Mrs. Duncan; and plainly
showed that she was indebted to the accident of having been
married in Scotland, and to her consequent right of appeal to the
Scotch tribunals, for a full and final release from the tie that
bound her to the vilest of husbands, which the English law of
that day would have mercilessly refused.
He read that. Other men might have gone on to the narrative
extracted from the Scotch newspaper. But at the last word of the
article he stopped.
The newspaper, and the unread details which it contained, lost
all hold on his attention in an instant, and in their stead,
living and burning on his mind, like the Letters of Doom on the
walls of Belshazzar, there rose up in judgment against him the
last words of a verse in the Gospel of Saint Luke--
"Whosoever marrieth her that is put away from her husband,
commiteth adultery."
He had preached from these words, he had warned his hearers, with
the whole strength of the fanatical sincerity that was in him, to
beware of prevaricating with the prohibition which that verse
contained, and to accept it as literally, unreservedly, finally
forbidding the marriage of a divorced woman. He had insisted on
that plain interpretation of plain words in terms which had made
his congregation tremble. And now he stood alone in the secrecy
of his own chamber self-convicted of the deadly sin which he had
denounced--he stood, as he had told the wicked among his hearers
that they would stand at the Last Day, before the Judgment Seat.
He was unconscious of the lapse of time; he never knew whether it
was many minutes or few before the door of his room was suddenly
and softly opened. It did open, and his wife came in.
In her white dress, with a white shawl thrown over her shoulders;
her dark hair, so neat and glossy at other times, hanging tangled
about her colorless cheeks, and heightening the glassy brightness
of terror in her eyes--so he saw her; the woman put away from her
husband--the woman whose love had made his life happy and had
stained his soul with a deadly sin.
She came on to within a few paces of him without a word or a
tear, or a shadow of change passing over the dreadful rigidity of
her face. She looked at him with a strange look; she pointed to
the newspaper crumpled in his hand with a strange gesture; she
spoke to him in a strange voice.
"You know it!" she said.
His eyes met hers--she shrank from them--turned--and laid her
arms and her head heavily against the wall.
"Oh, Alfred," she said, "I was so lonely in the world, and I was
so fond of you!"
The woman's delicacy, the woman's trembling tenderness welled up
from her heart, and touched her voice with a tone of its old
sweetness as she murmured those simple words.
She said no more. Her confession of her fault, her appeal to
their past love for pardon, were both poured forth in that one
sentence. She left it to his own heart to tell him the rest. How
anxiously her vigilant love had followed his every word and
treasured up his every opinion in the days when they first met;
how weakly and falsely, and yet with how true an affection for
him, she had shrunk from the disclosure which she knew but too
well would have separ ated them even at the church door; how
desperately she had fought against the coming discovery which
threatened to tear her from the bosom she clung to, and to cast
her out into the world with the shadow of her own shame to darken
her life to the end--all this she left him to feel; for the
moment which might part them forever was the moment when she knew
best how truly, how passionately he had loved her.
His lips trembled as he stood looking at her in silence, and the
slow, burning tears dropped heavily, one by one, down his cheeks.
The natural human remembrance of the golden days of their
companionship, of the nights and nights when that dear
head--turned away from him now in unutterable misery and
shame--had nestled itself so fondly and so happily on his breast,
fought hard to silence his conscience, to root out his dreadful
sense of guilt, to tear the words of Judgment from their ruthless
hold on his mind, to claim him in the sweet names of Pity and of
Love. If she had turned and looked at him at that moment, their
next words would have been spoken in each other's arms. But the
oppression of her despair under his silence was too heavy for
her, and she never moved.
He forced himself to look away from her; he struggled hard to
break the silence between them.
"God forgive you, Emily!" he said.
As her name passed his lips, his voice failed him, and the
torture at his heart burst its way out in sobs. He hurried to the
door to spare her the terrible reproof of the grief that had now
mastered him. When he passed her she turned toward him with a
faint cry.
He caught her as she sank forward, and saved her from dropping on
the floor. For the last time his arms closed round her. For the
last time his lips touched hers--cold and insensible to him now.
He laid her on the sofa and went out.
One of the female servants was crossing the hall. The girl
started as she met him, and turned pale at the sight of his face.
He could not speak to her, but he pointed to the study door. He
saw her go into the room, and then left the house.
He never entered it more, and he and his wife never met again.
Later on that last day, a sister of Mr. Carling's--a married
woman living in the town--came to the rectory. She brought an
open note with her, addressed to the unhappy mistress of the
house. It contained these few lines, blotted and stained with
tears:
May God grant us both the time for repentance! If I had loved you
less, I might have trusted myself to see you again. Forgive me,
and pity me, and remember me in your prayers, as I shall forgive,
and pity, and remember you.
He had tried to write more, but the pen had dropped from his
hand. His sister's entreaties had not moved him. After giving her
the note to deliver, he had solemnly charged her to be gentle in
communicating the tidings that she bore, and had departed alone
for London. He heard all remonstrances with patience. He did not
deny that the deception of which his wife had been guilty was the
most pardonable of all concealments of the truth, because it
sprang from her love for him; but he had the same hopeless answer
for every one who tried to plead with him--the verse from the
Gospel of Saint Luke.
His purpose in traveling to London was to make the necessary
arrangements for his wife's future existence, and then to get
employment which would separate him from his home and from all
its associations. A missionary expedition to one of the Pacific
Islands accepted him as a volunteer. Broken in body and spirit,
his last look of England from the deck of the ship was his last
look at land. A fortnight afterward, his brethren read the
burial-service over him on a calm, cloudless evening at sea.
Before he was committed to the deep, his little pocket Bible,
which had been a present from his wife, was, in accordance with
his dying wishes, placed open on his breast, so that the
inscription, "To my dear Husband," might rest over his heart.
His unhappy wife still lives. When the farewell lines of her
husband's writing reached her she was incapable of comprehending
them. The mental prostration which had followed the parting scene
was soon complicated by physical suffering--by fever on the
brain. To the surprise of all who attended her, she lived through
the shock, recovering with the complete loss of one faculty,
which, in her situation, poor thing, was a mercy and a gain to
her--the faculty of memory. From that time to this she has never
had the slightest gleam of recollection of anything that happened
before her illness. In her happy oblivion, the veriest trifles
are as new and as interesting to her as if she was beginning her
existence again. Under the tender care of the friends who now
protect her, she lives contentedly the life of a child. When her
last hour comes, may she die with nothing on her memory but the
recollection of their kindness!
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