Pages from a Journal with Other Papers Part 17

"Not frequent: he comes occasionally. We are both interested in a subject which I believe is not much studied in Langborough."

"Dear me! not dressmaking?"

"No, madam, archaeology."

Mrs. Bingham went out once more discomfited, and Mrs. Fairfax returned to the parlour.

"I am sure I am taking up too much of your time," said the Doctor, "but I cannot tell you what a privilege it is to spend a few minutes with a lady like yourself."

Mrs. Fairfax was silent for a minute.

"Mrs. Bingham has been here, and I think I ought to tell you that she has made some significant remarks about you. Forgive me if I suggest that we should partially, at any rate, discontinue our intercourse. I should be most unhappy if your friends.h.i.+p with me were to do you any harm."

The Doctor rose in a pa.s.sion, planting his stick on the floor.

"When the cackling of the geese or the braying of the a.s.ses on Langborough Common prevent my crossing it, then, and not till then, will my course be determined by Mrs. Bingham and her colleagues."

He sat down again with his elbow on the arm of the chair and half shading his eyes with his hand. His whole manner altered. Not a trace of the rector remained in him: the decisiveness vanished from his voice; it became musical, low, and hesitating. It was as if some angel had touched him, and had suddenly converted all his strength into tenderness, a transformation not impossible, for strength is tenderness and tenderness is strength.

"I shall be forty-nine years old next birthday," he said. "Never until now have I been sure that I loved a woman. I was married when I was twenty-five. I had seen two or three girls whom I thought I could love, and at last chose one. It was the arbitrary selection of a weary will.

My wife died within two years of her marriage. After her death I was thrown in the way of women who attracted me, but I wavered. If I made up my mind at night, I shrank back in the morning. I thought my irresolution was mere cowardice. It was not so. It was a warning that the time had not come. I resolved at last that there was to be no change in my life, that I would resign myself to my lot, expect no affection, and do the duty blindly which had been imposed upon me. But a miracle has been wrought, and I have a perfectly clear direction: with you for the first time in my life I am SURE. You have known what it is to be in a fog, unable to tell which way to turn, and all at once the cold, wet mist was lifted, the sun came out, the fields were lighted up, the sea revealed itself to the horizon, and your road lay straight before you stretching over the hill. I will not shame myself by apologies that I am no longer young. My love has remained with me. It is a pa.s.sion for you, and it is a reverence for a mind to which it will be a perpetual joy to submit."

"G.o.d pardon me," she said after a moment's pause, "for having drawn you to this! I did not mean it. If you knew all you would forgive me. It cannot, cannot be! Leave me." He hesitated. "Leave me, leave me at once!" she cried.

He rose, she took his right hand in both of hers: there was one look straight into his eyes from her own which were filling with tears, a half sob, her hands after one more grasp fell, and he found that he had left the house. He went home. How strange it is to return to a familiar chamber after a great event has happened! On his desk lay a volume of Cicero's letters. The fire had not been touched and was almost out: the door leading to the garden was open: the self of two hours before seemed to confront him. When the tumult in him began to subside he was struck by the groundlessness of his double a.s.sumption that Mrs. Fairfax was Mrs. Leighton and that she was free. He had made no inquiry. He had noticed the wedding-ring, and he had come to some conclusion about it which was supported by no evidence. Doubtless she could not be his: her husband was still alive. At last the hour for which unconsciously he had been waiting had struck, and his true self, he not having known hitherto what it was, had been declared. But it was all for nothing. It was as if some autumn-blooming plant had put forth on a sunny October morning the flower of the year, and had been instantaneously blasted and cut down to the root. The plant might revive next spring, but there could be no revival for him. There could be nothing now before him but that same dull duty, duty to the dull, duty without enthusiasm. He had no example for his consolation. The Bible is the record of heroic suffering: there is no story there of a martyrdom to monotony and life-weariness. He was a pious man, but loved prescription and form: he loved to think of himself as a member of the great Catholic Church and not as an isolated individual, and he found more relief in praying the prayers which millions had before him than in extempore effusion; humbly trusting that what he was seeking in consecrated pet.i.tions was all that he really needed. "In proportion as your prayers are peculiar," he once told his congregation in a course of sermons on Dissent, "they are worthless." There was nothing, though, in the prayer-book which met his case. He was in no danger from temptation, nor had he trespa.s.sed. He was not in want of his daily bread, and although he desired like all good men to see the Kingdom of G.o.d, the advent of that celestial kingdom which had for an instant been disclosed to him was for ever impossible.

The servant announced Mrs. Sweeting, who was asked to come in.

"Sit down, Mrs. Sweeting. What can I do for you?"

"Well, sir, perhaps you may remember--and if you don't, I do--how you helped my husband in that dreadful year 1825. I shall never forget that act of yours, Dr. Midleton, and I'd stick up for you if Mrs. Bingham and Mrs. Harrop and Mrs. Cobb and Miss Tarrant were to swear against you and you a-standing in the dock. As for that Miss Tarrant, there's that a- rankling in her that makes her worse than any of them, and if you don't know what it is, being too modest, forgive me for saying so, I do."

"But what's the matter, Mrs. Sweeting?"

"Matter, sir! Why, I can hardly bring it out, seeing that I'm only the wife of a tradesman, but one thing I will say as I ain't like the serpent in Genesis, a-crawling about on its belly and spitting poison and biting people by their heels."

"You have not yet told me what is wrong."

"Dr. Midleton, you shall have it, but recollect I come here as your friend: leastways I hope you'll forgive me if I call myself so, for if you were ill and you were to hold up your finger for me not another soul should come near you night nor day till you were well again or it had pleased G.o.d Almighty to take you to Himself. Dr. Midleton, there's a conspiracy."

"A what?"

"A conspiracy: that's right, I believe. You are acquainted with Mrs.

Fairfax. To make a long and a short of it, they say you are always going there, more than you ought, leastways unless you mean to marry her, and that she's only a dressmaker, and n.o.body knows where she comes from, and they ain't open and free: they won't come and tell you themselves; but you'll be turned out at the election the day after to- morrow."

"But what do you say yourself?"

"Me, Dr. Midleton? Why, I've spoke up pretty plainly. I told Mrs. Cobb it would be a good thing if you were married, provided you wouldn't be trod upon as some people's husbands are, and I was pretty well sure you never would be, and that you knew a lady when you saw her better than most folk; and as for her being a dressmaker what's that got to do with it?"

"You are too well acquainted with me, Mrs. Sweeting, to suppose I should condescend to notice this contemptible stuff or alter my course to please all Langborough. Why did you take the trouble to report it to me?"

"Because, sir, I wouldn't for the world you should think I was mixed up with them; and if my husband doesn't vote for you my name isn't Sweeting."

"I am much obliged to you. I see your motives: you are straightforward and I respect you."

Mrs. Sweeting thanked him and departed. His first feeling was wrath.

Never was there a man less likely to be cowed. He put on his hat and walked to his committee-room, where he found Mr. Bingham.

"No doubt, I suppose, Mr. Bingham?"

"Don't know, Doctor; the Radicals have got a strong candidate in Jem Casey. Some of our people will turn, I'm afraid, and split their votes."

"Split votes! with a fellow like that! How can there be any splitting between an honest man and a rascal?"

"There shouldn't be, sir, but--" Mr. Bingham hesitated--"I suppose there may be personal considerations."

"Personal considerations! what do you mean? Let us have no more of these Langborough tricks. Out with it, Bingham! Who are the persons and what are the considerations?"

"I really can't say, Doctor, but perhaps you may not be as popular as you were. You've--" but Mr. Bingham's strength again completely failed him, and he took a sudden turn--"You've taken a decided line lately at several of our meetings."

The Doctor looked steadily at Mr. Bingham, who felt that every corner of his pitiful soul was visible.

"The line I have taken you have generally supported. That is not what you mean. If I am defeated I shall be defeated by equivocating cowardice, and I shall consider myself honoured."

The Doctor strode out of the room. He knew now that he was the common property of the town, and that every tongue was wagging about him and a woman, but he was defiant. The next morning he saw painted in white paint on his own wall -

"My dearly beloved, for all you're so bold, To-morrow you'll find you're left out in the cold; And, Doctor, the reason you need not to ax, It's because of a dressmaker--Mrs. F---fax."

He was going out just as the gardener was about to obliterate the inscription.

"Leave it, Robert, leave it; let the filthy scoundrels perpetuate their own disgrace."

The result of the election was curious. Two of the Church candidates were returned at the top of the poll. Jem Casey came next. Dr.

Midleton and the other two Radical and Dissenting candidates were defeated. There were between seventy and eighty plumpers for the two successful Churchmen, and about five-and-twenty split votes for them and Casey, who had distinguished himself by his coa.r.s.e attacks on the Doctor. Mr. Bingham had a bad cold, and did not vote. On the following Sunday the church was fuller than usual. The Doctor preached on behalf of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. He did not allude directly to any of the events of the preceding week, but at the close of his sermon he said--"It has been frequently objected that we ought not to spend money on missions to the heathen abroad as there is such a field of labour at home. The answer to that objection is that there is more hope of the heathen than of many of our countrymen. This has been a nominally Christian land for centuries, but even now many deadly sins are not considered sinful, and it is an easier task to save the savage than to convince those, for example, whose tongue, to use the words of the apostle, is set on fire of h.e.l.l, that they are in danger of d.a.m.nation. I hope, therefore, my brethren, that you will give liberally."

On Monday Langborough was amazed to find Mrs. Fairfax's shop closed.

She had left the town. She had taken a post-chaise on Sat.u.r.day and had met the up-mail at Thaxton cross-roads. Her scanty furniture had disappeared. The carrier could but inform Langborough that he had orders to deliver her goods at Great Ormond Street whence he brought them. Mrs. Bingham went to London shortly afterwards and called at Great Ormond Street to inquire for Mrs. Fairfax. n.o.body of that name lived there, and the door was somewhat abruptly shut in her face. She came back convinced that Mrs. Fairfax was what Mrs. Cobb called "a bad lot."

"Do you believe," said she, "that a woman who gives a false name can be respectable? We want no further proof."

n.o.body wanted further proof. No Langborough lady needed any proof if a reputation was to be blasted.

"It's an alibi," said Mrs. Harrop. "That's what Tom Cranch the poacher did, and he was hung."

"An alias, I believe, is the correct term," said Miss Tarrant. "It means the a.s.sumption of a name which is not your own, a most discreditable device, one to which actresses and women to whose occupation I can only allude, uniformly resort. How thankful we ought to be that our respected Rector's eyes must now be opened and that he has escaped the snare! It was impossible that he could be permanently attracted by vice and vulgarity. It is singular how much more acute a woman's perception often is than a man's. I saw through this creature at once."