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George Silverman's Explanation
GEORGE SILVERMAN’S EXPLANATION
FIRST CHAPTER
IT happened in this wise—
But, sitting with my pen in my hand looking at those words again, without
descrying any hint in them of the words that should follow, it comes into
my mind that they have an abrupt appearance. They may serve, however, if
I let them remain, to suggest how very difficult I find it to begin to
explain my explanation. An uncouth phrase: and yet I do not see my way
to a better.
SECOND CHAPTER
IT happened in _this_ wise—
But, looking at those words, and comparing them with my former opening, I
find they are the self-same words repeated. This is the more surprising
to me, because I employ them in quite a new connection. For indeed I
declare that my intention was to discard the commencement I first had in
my thoughts, and to give the preference to another of an entirely
different nature, dating my explanation from an anterior period of my
life. I will make a third trial, without erasing this second failure,
protesting that it is not my design to conceal any of my infirmities,
whether they be of head or heart.
THIRD CHAPTER
NOT as yet directly aiming at how it came to pass, I will come upon it by
degrees. The natural manner, after all, for God knows that is how it
came upon me.
My parents were in a miserable condition of life, and my infant home was
a cellar in Preston. I recollect the sound of father’s Lancashire clogs
on the street pavement above, as being different in my young hearing from
the sound of all other clogs; and I recollect, that, when mother came
down the cellar-steps, I used tremblingly to speculate on her feet having
a good or an ill-tempered look,—on her knees,—on her waist,—until finally
her face came into view, and settled the question. From this it will be
seen that I was timid, and that the cellar-steps were steep, and that the
doorway was very low.
Mother had the gripe and clutch of poverty upon her face, upon her
figure, and not least of all upon her voice. Her sharp and high-pitched
words were squeezed out of her, as by the compression of bony fingers on
a leathern bag; and she had a way of rolling her eyes about and about the
cellar, as she scolded, that was gaunt and hungry. Father, with his
shoulders rounded, would sit quiet on a three-legged stool, looking at
the empty grate, until she would pluck the stool from under him, and bid
him go bring some money home. Then he would dismally ascend the steps;
and I, holding my ragged shirt and trousers together with a hand (my only
braces), would feint and dodge from mother’s pursuing grasp at my hair.
A worldly little devil was mother’s usual name for me. Whether I cried
for that I was in the dark, or for that it was cold, or for that I was
hungry, or whether I squeezed myself into a warm corner when there was a
fire, or ate voraciously when there was food, she would still say, ‘O,
you worldly little devil!’ And the sting of it was, that I quite well
knew myself to be a worldly little devil. Worldly as to wanting to be
housed and warmed, worldly as to wanting to be fed, worldly as to the
greed with which I inwardly compared how much I got of those good things
with how much father and mother got, when, rarely, those good things were
going.
Sometimes they both went away seeking work; and then I would be locked up
in the cellar for a day or two at a time. I was at my worldliest then.
Left alone, I yielded myself up to a worldly yearning for enough of
anything (except misery), and for the death of mother’s father, who was a
machine-maker at Birmingham, and on whose decease, I had heard mother
say, she would come into a whole courtful of houses ‘if she had her
rights.’ Worldly little devil, I would stand about, musingly fitting my
cold bare feet into cracked bricks and crevices of the damp
cellar-floor,—walking over my grandfather’s body, so to speak, into the
courtful of houses, and selling them for meat and drink, and clothes to
wear.
At last a change came down into our cellar. The universal change came
down even as low as that,—so will it mount to any height on which a human
creature can perch,—and brought other changes with it.
We had a heap of I don’t know what foul litter in the darkest corner,
which we called ‘the bed.’ For three days mother lay upon it without
getting up, and then began at times to laugh. If I had ever heard her
laugh before, it had been so seldom that the strange sound frightened me.
It frightened father too; and we took it by turns to give her water.
Then she began to move her head from side to side, and sing. After that,
she getting no better, father fell a-laughing and a-singing; and then
there was only I to give them both water, and they both died.
FOURTH CHAPTER
WHEN I was lifted out of the cellar by two men, of whom one came peeping
down alone first, and ran away and brought the other, I could hardly bear
the light of the street. I was sitting in the road-way, blinking at it,
and at a ring of people collected around me, but not close to me, when,
true to my character of worldly little devil, I broke silence by saying,
‘I am hungry and thirsty!’
‘Does he know they are dead?’ asked one of another.
‘Do you know your father and mother are both dead of fever?’ asked a
third of me severely.
‘I don’t know what it is to be dead. I supposed it meant that, when the
cup rattled against their teeth, and the water spilt over them. I am
hungry and thirsty.’ That was all I had to say about it.
The ring of people widened outward from the inner side as I looked around
me; and I smelt vinegar, and what I know to be camphor, thrown in towards
where I sat. Presently some one put a great vessel of smoking vinegar on
the ground near me; and then they all looked at me in silent horror as I
ate and drank of what was brought for me. I knew at the time they had a
horror of me, but I couldn’t help it.
I was still eating and drinking, and a murmur of discussion had begun to
arise respecting what was to be done with me next, when I heard a cracked
voice somewhere in the ring say, ‘My name is Hawkyard, Mr. Verity
Hawkyard, of West Bromwich.’ Then the ring split in one place; and a
yellow-faced, peak-nosed gentleman, clad all in iron-gray to his gaiters,
pressed forward with a policeman and another official of some sort. He
came forward close to the vessel of smoking vinegar; from which he
sprinkled himself carefully, and me copiously.
‘He had a grandfather at Birmingham, this young boy, who is just dead
too,’ said Mr. Hawkyard.
I turned my eyes upon the speaker, and said in a ravening manner,
‘Where’s his houses?’
‘Hah! Horrible worldliness on the edge of the grave,’ said Mr. Hawkyard,
casting more of the vinegar over me, as if to get my devil out of me. ‘I
have undertaken a slight—a very slight—trust in behalf of this boy; quite
a voluntary trust: a matter of mere honour, if not of mere sentiment:
still I have taken it upon myself, and it shall be (O, yes, it shall be!)
discharged.’
The bystanders seemed to form an opinion of this gentleman much more
favourable than their opinion of me.
‘He shall be taught,’ said Mr. Hawkyard, ‘(O, yes, he shall be taught!)
but what is to be done with him for the present? He may be infected. He
may disseminate infection.’ The ring widened considerably. ‘What is to
be done with him?’
He held some talk with the two officials. I could distinguish no word
save ‘Farm-house.’ There was another sound several times repeated, which
was wholly meaningless in my ears then, but which I knew afterwards to be
‘Hoghton Towers.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Hawkyard. ‘I think that sounds promising; I think that
sounds hopeful. And he can be put by himself in a ward, for a night or
two, you say?’
It seemed to be the police-officer who had said so; for it was he who
replied, Yes! It was he, too, who finally took me by the arm, and walked
me before him through the streets, into a whitewashed room in a bare
building, where I had a chair to sit in, a table to sit at, an iron
bedstead and good mattress to lie upon, and a rug and blanket to cover
me. Where I had enough to eat too, and was shown how to clean the tin
porringer in which it was conveyed to me, until it was as good as a
looking-glass. Here, likewise, I was put in a bath, and had new clothes
brought to me; and my old rags were burnt, and I was camphored and
vinegared and disinfected in a variety of ways.
When all this was done,—I don’t know in how many days or how few, but it
matters not,—Mr. Hawkyard stepped in at the door, remaining close to it,
and said, ‘Go and stand against the opposite wall, George Silverman. As
far off as you can. That’ll do. How do you feel?’
I told him that I didn’t feel cold, and didn’t feel hungry, and didn’t
feel thirsty. That was the whole round of human feelings, as far as I
knew, except the pain of being beaten.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘you are going, George, to a healthy farm-house to be
purified. Keep in the air there as much as you can. Live an out-of-door
life there, until you are fetched away. You had better not say much—in
fact, you had better be very careful not to say anything—about what your
parents died of, or they might not like to take you in. Behave well, and
I’ll put you to school; O, yes! I’ll put you to school, though I’m not
obligated to do it. I am a servant of the Lord, George; and I have been
a good servant to him, I have, these five-and-thirty years. The Lord has
had a good servant in me, and he knows it.’
What I then supposed him to mean by this, I cannot imagine. As little do
I know when I began to comprehend that he was a prominent member of some
obscure denomination or congregation, every member of which held forth to
the rest when so inclined, and among whom he was called Brother Hawkyard.
It was enough for me to know, on that day in the ward, that the farmer’s
cart was waiting for me at the street corner. I was not slow to get into
it; for it was the first ride I ever had in my life.
It made me sleepy, and I slept. First, I stared at Preston streets as
long as they lasted; and, meanwhile, I may have had some small dumb
wondering within me whereabouts our cellar was; but I doubt it. Such a
worldly little devil was I, that I took no thought who would bury father
and mother, or where they would be buried, or when. The question whether
the eating and drinking by day, and the covering by night, would be as
good at the farm-house as at the ward superseded those questions.
The jolting of the cart on a loose stony road awoke me; and I found that
we were mounting a steep hill, where the road was a rutty by-road through
a field. And so, by fragments of an ancient terrace, and by some rugged
outbuildings that had once been fortified, and passing under a ruined
gateway we came to the old farm-house in the thick stone wall outside the
old quadrangle of Hoghton Towers: which I looked at like a stupid savage,
seeing no specially in, seeing no antiquity in; assuming all farm-houses
to resemble it; assigning the decay I noticed to the one potent cause of
all ruin that I knew,—poverty; eyeing the pigeons in their flights, the
cattle in their stalls, the ducks in the pond, and the fowls pecking
about the yard, with a hungry hope that plenty of them might be killed
for dinner while I stayed there; wondering whether the scrubbed dairy
vessels, drying in the sunlight, could be goodly porringers out of which
the master ate his belly-filling food, and which he polished when he had
done, according to my ward experience; shrinkingly doubtful whether the
shadows, passing over that airy height on the bright spring day, were not
something in the nature of frowns,—sordid, afraid, unadmiring,—a small
brute to shudder at.
To that time I had never had the faintest impression of duty. I had had
no knowledge whatever that there was anything lovely in this life. When
I had occasionally slunk up the cellar-steps into the street, and glared
in at shop-windows, I had done so with no higher feelings than we may
suppose to animate a mangy young dog or wolf-cub. It is equally the fact
that I had never been alone, in the sense of holding unselfish converse
with myself. I had been solitary often enough, but nothing better.
Such was my condition when I sat down to my dinner that day, in the
kitchen of the old farm-house. Such was my condition when I lay on my
bed in the old farm-house that night, stretched out opposite the narrow
mullioned window, in the cold light of the moon, like a young vampire.
FIFTH CHAPTER
WHAT do I know of Hoghton Towers? Very little; for I have been
gratefully unwilling to disturb my first impressions. A house, centuries
old, on high ground a mile or so removed from the road between Preston
and Blackburn, where the first James of England, in his hurry to make
money by making baronets, perhaps made some of those remunerative
dignitaries. A house, centuries old, deserted and falling to pieces, its
woods and gardens long since grass-land or ploughed up, the Rivers Ribble
and Darwen glancing below it, and a vague haze of smoke, against which
not even the supernatural prescience of the first Stuart could foresee a
counter-blast, hinting at steam-power, powerful in two distances.
What did I know then of Hoghton Towers? When I first peeped in at the
gate of the lifeless quadrangle, and started from the mouldering statue
becoming visible to me like its guardian ghost; when I stole round by the
back of the farm-house, and got in among the ancient rooms, many of them
with their floors and ceilings falling, the beams and rafters hanging
dangerously down, the plaster dropping as I trod, the oaken panels
stripped away, the windows half walled up, half broken; when I discovered
a gallery commanding the old kitchen, and looked down between balustrades
upon a massive old table and benches, fearing to see I know not what
dead-alive creatures come in and seat themselves, and look up with I know
not what dreadful eyes, or lack of eyes, at me; when all over the house I
was awed by gaps and chinks where the sky stared sorrowfully at me, where
the birds passed, and the ivy rustled, and the stains of winter weather
blotched the rotten floors; when down at the bottom of dark pits of
staircase, into which the stairs had sunk, green leaves trembled,
butterflies fluttered, and bees hummed in and out through the broken
door-ways; when encircling the whole ruin were sweet scents, and sights
of fresh green growth, and ever-renewing life, that I had never dreamed
of,—I say, when I passed into such clouded perception of these things as
my dark soul could compass, what did I know then of Hoghton Towers?
I have written that the sky stared sorrowfully at me. Therein have I
anticipated the answer. I knew that all these things looked sorrowfully
at me; that they seemed to sigh or whisper, not without pity for me,
‘Alas! poor worldly little devil!’
There were two or three rats at the bottom of one of the smaller pits of
broken staircase when I craned over and looked in. They were scuffling
for some prey that was there; and, when they started and hid themselves
close together in the dark, I thought of the old life (it had grown old
already) in the cellar.
How not to be this worldly little devil? how not to have a repugnance
towards myself as I had towards the rats? I hid in a corner of one of
the smaller chambers, frightened at myself, and crying (it was the first
time I had ever cried for any cause not purely physical), and I tried to
think about it. One of the farm-ploughs came into my range of view just
then; and it seemed to help me as it went on with its two horses up and
down the field so peacefully and quietly.
There was a girl of about my own age in the farm-house family, and she
sat opposite to me at the narrow table at meal-times. It had come into
my mind, at our first dinner, that she might take the fever from me. The
thought had not disquieted me then. I had only speculated how she would
look under the altered circumstances, and whether she would die. But it
came into my mind now, that I might try to prevent her taking the fever
by keeping away from her. I knew I should have but scrambling board if I
did; so much the less worldly and less devilish the deed would be, I
thought.
From that hour, I withdrew myself at early morning into secret corners of
the ruined house, and remained hidden there until she went to bed. At
first, when meals were ready, I used to hear them calling me; and then my
resolution weakened. But I strengthened it again by going farther off
into the ruin, and getting out of hearing. I often watched for her at
the dim windows; and, when I saw that she was fresh and rosy, felt much
happier.
Out of this holding her in my thoughts, to the humanising of myself, I
suppose some childish love arose within me. I felt, in some sort,
dignified by the pride of protecting her,—by the pride of making the
sacrifice for her. As my heart swelled with that new feeling, it
insensibly softened about mother and father. It seemed to have been
frozen before, and now to be thawed. The old ruin and all the lovely
things that haunted it were not sorrowful for me only, but sorrowful for
mother and father as well. Therefore did I cry again, and often too.
The farm-house family conceived me to be of a morose temper, and were
very short with me; though they never stinted me in such broken fare as
was to be got out of regular hours. One night when I lifted the kitchen
latch at my usual time, Sylvia (that was her pretty name) had but just
gone out of the room. Seeing her ascending the opposite stairs, I stood
still at the door. She had heard the clink of the latch, and looked
round.
‘George,’ she called to me in a pleased voice, ‘to-morrow is my birthday;
and we are to have a fiddler, and there’s a party of boys and girls
coming in a cart, and we shall dance. I invite you. Be sociable for
once, George.’
‘I am very sorry, miss,’ I answered; ‘but I—but, no; I can’t come.’
‘You are a disagreeable, ill-humoured lad,’ she returned disdainfully;
‘and I ought not to have asked you. I shall never speak to you again.’
As I stood with my eyes fixed on the fire, after she was gone, I felt
that the farmer bent his brows upon me.
‘Eh, lad!’ said he; ‘Sylvy’s right. You’re as moody and broody a lad as
never I set eyes on yet.’
I tried to assure him that I meant no harm; but he only said coldly,
‘Maybe not, maybe not! There, get thy supper, get thy supper; and then
thou canst sulk to thy heart’s content again.’
Ah! if they could have seen me next day, in the ruin, watching for the
arrival of the cart full of merry young guests; if they could have seen
me at night, gliding out from behind the ghostly statue, listening to the
music and the fall of dancing feet, and watching the lighted farm-house
windows from the quadrangle when all the ruin was dark; if they could
have read my heart, as I crept up to bed by the back way, comforting
myself with the reflection, ‘They will take no hurt from me,’—they would
not have thought mine a morose or an unsocial nature.
It was in these ways that I began to form a shy disposition; to be of a
timidly silent character under misconstruction; to have an inexpressible,
perhaps a morbid, dread of ever being sordid or worldly. It was in these
ways that my nature came to shape itself to such a mould, even before it
was affected by the influences of the studious and retired life of a poor
scholar.
SIXTH CHAPTER
BROTHER HAWKYARD (as he insisted on my calling him) put me to school, and
told me to work my way. ‘You are all right, George,’ he said. ‘I have
been the best servant the Lord has had in his service for this
five-and-thirty year (O, I have!); and he knows the value of such a
servant as I have been to him (O, yes, he does!); and he’ll prosper your
schooling as a part of my reward. That’s what _he_’ll do, George. He’ll
do it for me.’
From the first I could not like this familiar knowledge of the ways of
the sublime, inscrutable Almighty, on Brother Hawkyard’s part. As I grew
a little wiser, and still a little wiser, I liked it less and less. His
manner, too, of confirming himself in a parenthesis,—as if, knowing
himself, he doubted his own word,—I found distasteful. I cannot tell how
much these dislikes cost me; for I had a dread that they were worldly.
As time went on, I became a Foundation-boy on a good foundation, and I
cost Brother Hawkyard nothing. When I had worked my way so far, I worked
yet harder, in the hope of ultimately getting a presentation to college
and a fellowship. My health has never been strong (some vapour from the
Preston cellar cleaves to me, I think); and what with much work and some
weakness, I came again to be regarded—that is, by my fellow-students—as
unsocial.
All through my time as a foundation-boy, I was within a few miles of
Brother Hawkyard’s congregation; and whenever I was what we called a
leave-boy on a Sunday, I went over there at his desire. Before the
knowledge became forced upon me that outside their place of meeting these
brothers and sisters were no better than the rest of the human family,
but on the whole were, to put the case mildly, as bad as most, in respect
of giving short weight in their shops, and not speaking the truth,—I say,
before this knowledge became forced upon me, their prolix addresses,
their inordinate conceit, their daring ignorance, their investment of the
Supreme Ruler of heaven and earth with their own miserable meannesses and
littlenesses, greatly shocked me. Still, as their term for the frame of
mind that could not perceive them to be in an exalted state of grace was
the ‘worldly’ state, I did for a time suffer tortures under my inquiries
of myself whether that young worldly-devilish spirit of mine could
secretly be lingering at the bottom of my non-appreciation.
Brother Hawkyard was the popular expounder in this assembly, and
generally occupied the platform (there was a little platform with a table
on it, in lieu of a pulpit) first, on a Sunday afternoon. He was by
trade a drysalter. Brother Gimblet, an elderly man with a crabbed face,
a large dog’s-eared shirt-collar, and a spotted blue neckerchief reaching
up behind to the crown of his head, was also a drysalter and an
expounder. Brother Gimblet professed the greatest admiration for Brother
Hawkyard, but (I had thought more than once) bore him a jealous grudge.
Let whosoever may peruse these lines kindly take the pains here to read
twice my solemn pledge, that what I write of the language and customs of
the congregation in question I write scrupulously, literally, exactly,
from the life and the truth.
On the first Sunday after I had won what I had so long tried for, and
when it was certain that I was going up to college, Brother Hawkyard
concluded a long exhortation thus:
‘Well, my friends and fellow-sinners, now I told you when I began, that I
didn’t know a word of what I was going to say to you (and no, I did
not!), but that it was all one to me, because I knew the Lord would put
into my mouth the words I wanted.’
(‘That’s it!’ from Brother Gimblet.)
‘And he did put into my mouth the words I wanted.’
(‘So he did!’ from Brother Gimblet.)
‘And why?’
(‘Ah, let’s have that!’ from Brother Gimblet.)
‘Because I have been his faithful servant for five-and-thirty years, and
because he knows it. For five-and-thirty years! And he knows it, mind
you! I got those words that I wanted on account of my wages. I got ’em
from the Lord, my fellow-sinners. Down! I said, “Here’s a heap of wages
due; let us have something down, on account.” And I got it down, and I
paid it over to you; and you won’t wrap it up in a napkin, nor yet in a
towel, nor yet pocketankercher, but you’ll put it out at good interest.
Very well. Now, my brothers and sisters and fellow-sinners, I am going
to conclude with a question, and I’ll make it so plain (with the help of
the Lord, after five-and-thirty years, I should rather hope!) as that the
Devil shall not be able to confuse it in your heads,—which he would be
overjoyed to do.’
(‘Just his way. Crafty old blackguard!’ from Brother Gimblet.)
‘And the question is this, Are the angels learned?’
(‘Not they. Not a bit on it!’ from Brother Gimblet, with the greatest
confidence.)
‘Not they. And where’s the proof? sent ready-made by the hand of the
Lord. Why, there’s one among us here now, that has got all the learning
that can be crammed into him. _I_ got him all the learning that could be
crammed into him. His grandfather’ (this I had never heard before) ‘was
a brother of ours. He was Brother Parksop. That’s what he was.
Parksop; Brother Parksop. His worldly name was Parksop, and he was a
brother of this brotherhood. Then wasn’t he Brother Parksop?’
(‘Must be. Couldn’t help hisself!’ from Brother Gimblet.)
‘Well, he left that one now here present among us to the care of a
brother-sinner of his (and that brother-sinner, mind you, was a sinner of
a bigger size in his time than any of you; praise the Lord!), Brother
Hawkyard. Me. _I_ got him without fee or reward,—without a morsel of
myrrh, or frankincense, nor yet amber, letting alone the honeycomb,—all
the learning that could be crammed into him. Has it brought him into our
temple, in the spirit? No. Have we had any ignorant brothers and
sisters that didn’t know round O from crooked S, come in among us
meanwhile? Many. Then the angels are _not_ learned; then they don’t so
much as know their alphabet. And now, my friends and fellow-sinners,
having brought it to that, perhaps some brother present—perhaps you,
Brother Gimblet—will pray a bit for us?’
Brother Gimblet undertook the sacred function, after having drawn his
sleeve across his mouth, and muttered, ‘Well! I don’t know as I see my
way to hitting any of you quite in the right place neither.’ He said
this with a dark smile, and then began to bellow. What we were specially
to be preserved from, according to his solicitations, was, despoilment of
the orphan, suppression of testamentary intentions on the part of a
father or (say) grandfather, appropriation of the orphan’s
house-property, feigning to give in charity to the wronged one from whom
we withheld his due; and that class of sins. He ended with the petition,
‘Give us peace!’ which, speaking for myself, was very much needed after
twenty minutes of his bellowing.
Even though I had not seen him when he rose from his knees, steaming with
perspiration, glance at Brother Hawkyard, and even though I had not heard
Brother Hawkyard’s tone of congratulating him on the vigour with which he
had roared, I should have detected a malicious application in this
prayer. Unformed suspicions to a similar effect had sometimes passed
through my mind in my earlier school-days, and had always caused me great
distress; for they were worldly in their nature, and wide, very wide, of
the spirit that had drawn me from Sylvia. They were sordid suspicions,
without a shadow of proof. They were worthy to have originated in the
unwholesome cellar. They were not only without proof, but against proof;
for was I not myself a living proof of what Brother Hawkyard had done?
and without him, how should I ever have seen the sky look sorrowfully
down upon that wretched boy at Hoghton Towers?
Although the dread of a relapse into a stage of savage selfishness was
less strong upon me as I approached manhood, and could act in an
increased degree for myself, yet I was always on my guard against any
tendency to such relapse. After getting these suspicions under my feet,
I had been troubled by not being able to like Brother Hawkyard’s manner,
or his professed religion. So it came about, that, as I walked back that
Sunday evening, I thought it would be an act of reparation for any such
injury my struggling thoughts had unwillingly done him, if I wrote, and
placed in his hands, before going to college, a full acknowledgment of
his goodness to me, and an ample tribute of thanks. It might serve as an
implied vindication of him against any dark scandal from a rival brother
and expounder, or from any other quarter.
Accordingly, I wrote the document with much care. I may add with much
feeling too; for it affected me as I went on. Having no set studies to
pursue, in the brief interval between leaving the Foundation and going to
Cambridge, I determined to walk out to his place of business, and give it
into his own hands.
It was a winter afternoon, when I tapped at the door of his little
counting-house, which was at the farther end of his long, low shop. As I
did so (having entered by the back yard, where casks and boxes were taken
in, and where there was the inscription, ‘Private way to the
counting-house’), a shopman called to me from the counter that he was
engaged.
‘Brother Gimblet’ (said the shopman, who was one of the brotherhood) ‘is
with him.’
I thought this all the better for my purpose, and made bold to tap again.
They were talking in a low tone, and money was passing; for I heard it
being counted out.
‘Who is it?’ asked Brother Hawkyard, sharply.
‘George Silverman,’ I answered, holding the door open. ‘May I come in?’
Both brothers seemed so astounded to see me that I felt shyer than usual.
But they looked quite cadaverous in the early gaslight, and perhaps that
accidental circumstance exaggerated the expression of their faces.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Brother Hawkyard.
‘Ay! what is the matter?’ asked Brother Gimblet.
‘Nothing at all,’ I said, diffidently producing my document: ‘I am only
the bearer of a letter from myself.’
‘From yourself, George?’ cried Brother Hawkyard.
‘And to you,’ said I.
‘And to me, George?’
He turned paler, and opened it hurriedly; but looking over it, and seeing
generally what it was, became less hurried, recovered his colour, and
said, ‘Praise the Lord!’
‘That’s it!’ cried Brother Gimblet. ‘Well put! Amen.’
Brother Hawkyard then said, in a livelier strain, ‘You must know, George,
that Brother Gimblet and I are going to make our two businesses one. We
are going into partnership. We are settling it now. Brother Gimblet is
to take one clear half of the profits (O, yes! he shall have it; he shall
have it to the last farthing).’
‘D.V.!’ said Brother Gimblet, with his right fist firmly clinched on his
right leg.
‘There is no objection,’ pursued Brother Hawkyard, ‘to my reading this
aloud, George?’
As it was what I expressly desired should be done, after yesterday’s
prayer, I more than readily begged him to read it aloud. He did so; and
Brother Gimblet listened with a crabbed smile.
‘It was in a good hour that I came here,’ he said, wrinkling up his eyes.
‘It was in a good hour, likewise, that I was moved yesterday to depict
for the terror of evil-doers a character the direct opposite of Brother
Hawkyard’s. But it was the Lord that done it: I felt him at it while I
was perspiring.’
After that it was proposed by both of them that I should attend the
congregation once more before my final departure. What my shy reserve
would undergo, from being expressly preached at and prayed at, I knew
beforehand. But I reflected that it would be for the last time, and that
it might add to the weight of my letter. It was well known to the
brothers and sisters that there was no place taken for me in _their_
paradise; and if I showed this last token of deference to Brother
Hawkyard, notoriously in despite of my own sinful inclinations, it might
go some little way in aid of my statement that he had been good to me,
and that I was grateful to him. Merely stipulating, therefore, that no
express endeavour should be made for my conversion,—which would involve
the rolling of several brothers and sisters on the floor, declaring that
they felt all their sins in a heap on their left side, weighing so many
pounds avoirdupois, as I knew from what I had seen of those repulsive
mysteries,—I promised.
Since the reading of my letter, Brother Gimblet had been at intervals
wiping one eye with an end of his spotted blue neckerchief, and grinning
to himself. It was, however, a habit that brother had, to grin in an
ugly manner even when expounding. I call to mind a delighted snarl with
which he used to detail from the platform the torments reserved for the
wicked (meaning all human creation except the brotherhood), as being
remarkably hideous.
I left the two to settle their articles of partnership, and count money;
and I never saw them again but on the following Sunday. Brother Hawkyard
died within two or three years, leaving all he possessed to Brother
Gimblet, in virtue of a will dated (as I have been told) that very day.
Now I was so far at rest with myself, when Sunday came, knowing that I
had conquered my own mistrust, and righted Brother Hawkyard in the
jaundiced vision of a rival, that I went, even to that coarse chapel, in
a less sensitive state than usual. How could I foresee that the
delicate, perhaps the diseased, corner of my mind, where I winced and
shrunk when it was touched, or was even approached, would be handled as
the theme of the whole proceedings?
On this occasion it was assigned to Brother Hawkyard to pray, and to
Brother Gimblet to preach. The prayer was to open the ceremonies; the
discourse was to come next. Brothers Hawkyard and Gimblet were both on
the platform; Brother Hawkyard on his knees at the table, unmusically
ready to pray; Brother Gimblet sitting against the wall, grinningly ready
to preach.
‘Let us offer up the sacrifice of prayer, my brothers and sisters and
fellow-sinners.’ Yes; but it was I who was the sacrifice. It was our
poor, sinful, worldly-minded brother here present who was wrestled for.
The now-opening career of this our unawakened brother might lead to his
becoming a minister of what was called ‘the church.’ That was what _he_
looked to. The church. Not the chapel, Lord. The church. No rectors,
no vicars, no archdeacons, no bishops, no archbishops, in the chapel,
but, O Lord! many such in the church. Protect our sinful brother from
his love of lucre. Cleanse from our unawakened brother’s breast his sin
of worldly-mindedness. The prayer said infinitely more in words, but
nothing more to any intelligible effect.
Then Brother Gimblet came forward, and took (as I knew he would) the
text, ‘My kingdom is not of this world.’ Ah! but whose was, my
fellow-sinners? Whose? Why, our brother’s here present was. The only
kingdom he had an idea of was of this world. (‘That’s it!’ from several
of the congregation.) What did the woman do when she lost the piece of
money? Went and looked for it. What should our brother do when he lost
his way? (‘Go and look for it,’ from a sister.) Go and look for it,
true. But must he look for it in the right direction, or in the wrong?
(‘In the right,’ from a brother.) There spake the prophets! He must
look for it in the right direction, or he couldn’t find it. But he had
turned his back upon the right direction, and he wouldn’t find it. Now,
my fellow-sinners, to show you the difference betwixt worldly-mindedness
and unworldly-mindedness, betwixt kingdoms not of this world and kingdoms
_of_ this world, here was a letter wrote by even our worldly-minded
brother unto Brother Hawkyard. Judge, from hearing of it read, whether
Brother Hawkyard was the faithful steward that the Lord had in his mind
only t’other day, when, in this very place, he drew you the picter of the
unfaithful one; for it was him that done it, not me. Don’t doubt that!
Brother Gimblet then groaned and bellowed his way through my composition,
and subsequently through an hour. The service closed with a hymn, in
which the brothers unanimously roared, and the sisters unanimously
shrieked at me, That I by wiles of worldly gain was mocked, and they on
waters of sweet love were rocked; that I with mammon struggled in the
dark, while they were floating in a second ark.
I went out from all this with an aching heart and a weary spirit: not
because I was quite so weak as to consider these narrow creatures
interpreters of the Divine Majesty and Wisdom, but because I was weak
enough to feel as though it were my hard fortune to be misrepresented and
misunderstood, when I most tried to subdue any risings of mere
worldliness within me, and when I most hoped that, by dint of trying
earnestly, I had succeeded.
SEVENTH CHAPTER
MY timidity and my obscurity occasioned me to live a secluded life at
college, and to be little known. No relative ever came to visit me, for
I had no relative. No intimate friends broke in upon my studies, for I
made no intimate friends. I supported myself on my scholarship, and read
much. My college time was otherwise not so very different from my time
at Hoghton Towers.
Knowing myself to be unfit for the noisier stir of social existence, but
believing myself qualified to do my duty in a moderate, though earnest
way, if I could obtain some small preferment in the Church, I applied my
mind to the clerical profession. In due sequence I took orders, was
ordained, and began to look about me for employment. I must observe that
I had taken a good degree, that I had succeeded in winning a good
fellowship, and that my means were ample for my retired way of life. By
this time I had read with several young men; and the occupation increased
my income, while it was highly interesting to me. I once accidentally
overheard our greatest don say, to my boundless joy, ‘That he heard it
reported of Silverman that his gift of quiet explanation, his patience,
his amiable temper, and his conscientiousness made him the best of
coaches.’ May my ‘gift of quiet explanation’ come more seasonably and
powerfully to my aid in this present explanation than I think it will!
It may be in a certain degree owing to the situation of my college-rooms
(in a corner where the daylight was sobered), but it is in a much larger
degree referable to the state of my own mind, that I seem to myself, on
looking back to this time of my life, to have been always in the peaceful
shade. I can see others in the sunlight; I can see our boats’ crews and
our athletic young men on the glistening water, or speckled with the
moving lights of sunlit leaves; but I myself am always in the shadow
looking on. Not unsympathetically,—God forbid!—but looking on alone,
much as I looked at Sylvia from the shadows of the ruined house, or
looked at the red gleam shining through the farmer’s windows, and
listened to the fall of dancing feet, when all the ruin was dark that
night in the quadrangle.
I now come to the reason of my quoting that laudation of myself above
given. Without such reason, to repeat it would have been mere
boastfulness.
Among those who had read with me was Mr. Fareway, second son of Lady
Fareway, widow of Sir Gaston Fareway, baronet. This young gentleman’s
abilities were much above the average; but he came of a rich family, and
was idle and luxurious. He presented himself to me too late, and
afterwards came to me too irregularly, to admit of my being of much
service to him. In the end, I considered it my duty to dissuade him from
going up for an examination which he could never pass; and he left
college without a degree. After his departure, Lady Fareway wrote to me,
representing the justice of my returning half my fee, as I had been of so
little use to her son. Within my knowledge a similar demand had not been
made in any other case; and I most freely admit that the justice of it
had not occurred to me until it was pointed out. But I at once perceived
it, yielded to it, and returned the money—
Mr. Fareway had been gone two years or more, and I had forgotten him,
when he one day walked into my rooms as I was sitting at my books.
Said he, after the usual salutations had passed, ‘Mr. Silverman, my
mother is in town here, at the hotel, and wishes me to present you to
her.’
I was not comfortable with strangers, and I dare say I betrayed that I
was a little nervous or unwilling. ‘For,’ said he, without my having
spoken, ‘I think the interview may tend to the advancement of your
prospects.’
It put me to the blush to think that I should be tempted by a worldly
reason, and I rose immediately.
Said Mr. Fareway, as we went along, ‘Are you a good hand at business?’
‘I think not,’ said I.
Said Mr. Fareway then, ‘My mother is.’
‘Truly?’ said I.
‘Yes: my mother is what is usually called a managing woman. Doesn’t make
a bad thing, for instance, even out of the spendthrift habits of my
eldest brother abroad. In short, a managing woman. This is in
confidence.’
He had never spoken to me in confidence, and I was surprised by his doing
so. I said I should respect his confidence, of course, and said no more
on the delicate subject. We had but a little way to walk, and I was soon
in his mother’s company. He presented me, shook hands with me, and left
us two (as he said) to business.
I saw in my Lady Fareway a handsome, well-preserved lady of somewhat
large stature, with a steady glare in her great round dark eyes that
embarrassed me.
Said my lady, ‘I have heard from my son, Mr. Silverman, that you would be
glad of some preferment in the church.’ I gave my lady to understand
that was so.
‘I don’t know whether you are aware,’ my lady proceeded, ‘that we have a
presentation to a living? I say _we_ have; but, in point of fact, _I_
have.’
I gave my lady to understand that I had not been aware of this.
Said my lady, ‘So it is: indeed I have two presentations,—one to two
hundred a year, one to six. Both livings are in our county,—North
Devonshire,—as you probably know. The first is vacant. Would you like
it?’
What with my lady’s eyes, and what with the suddenness of this proposed
gift, I was much confused.
‘I am sorry it is not the larger presentation,’ said my lady, rather
coldly; ‘though I will not, Mr. Silverman, pay you the bad compliment of
supposing that _you_ are, because that would be mercenary,—and mercenary
I am persuaded you are not.’
Said I, with my utmost earnestness, ‘Thank you, Lady Fareway, thank you,
thank you! I should be deeply hurt if I thought I bore the character.’
‘Naturally,’ said my lady. ‘Always detestable, but particularly in a
clergyman. You have not said whether you will like the living?’
With apologies for my remissness or indistinctness, I assured my lady
that I accepted it most readily and gratefully. I added that I hoped she
would not estimate my appreciation of the generosity of her choice by my
flow of words; for I was not a ready man in that respect when taken by
surprise or touched at heart.
‘The affair is concluded,’ said my lady; ‘concluded. You will find the
duties very light, Mr. Silverman. Charming house; charming little
garden, orchard, and all that. You will be able to take pupils. By the
bye! No: I will return to the word afterwards. What was I going to
mention, when it put me out?’
My lady stared at me, as if I knew. And I didn’t know. And that
perplexed me afresh.
Said my lady, after some consideration, ‘O, of course, how very dull of
me! The last incumbent,—least mercenary man I ever saw,—in consideration
of the duties being so light and the house so delicious, couldn’t rest,
he said, unless I permitted him to help me with my correspondence,
accounts, and various little things of that kind; nothing in themselves,
but which it worries a lady to cope with. Would Mr. Silverman also like
to—? Or shall I—?’
I hastened to say that my poor help would be always at her ladyship’s
service.
‘I am absolutely blessed,’ said my lady, casting up her eyes (and so
taking them off me for one moment), ‘in having to do with gentlemen who
cannot endure an approach to the idea of being mercenary!’ She shivered
at the word. ‘And now as to the pupil.’
‘The—?’ I was quite at a loss.
‘Mr. Silverman, you have no idea what she is. She is,’ said my lady,
laying her touch upon my coat-sleeve, ‘I do verily believe, the most
extraordinary girl in this world. Already knows more Greek and Latin
than Lady Jane Grey. And taught herself! Has not yet, remember, derived
a moment’s advantage from Mr. Silverman’s classical acquirements. To say
nothing of mathematics, which she is bent upon becoming versed in, and in
which (as I hear from my son and others) Mr. Silverman’s reputation is so
deservedly high!’
Under my lady’s eyes I must have lost the clue, I felt persuaded; and yet
I did not know where I could have dropped it.
‘Adelina,’ said my lady, ‘is my only daughter. If I did not feel quite
convinced that I am not blinded by a mother’s partiality; unless I was
absolutely sure that when you know her, Mr. Silverman, you will esteem it
a high and unusual privilege to direct her studies,—I should introduce a
mercenary element into this conversation, and ask you on what terms—’
I entreated my lady to go no further. My lady saw that I was troubled,
and did me the honour to comply with my request.
EIGHTH CHAPTER
EVERYTHING in mental acquisition that her brother might have been, if he
would, and everything in all gracious charms and admirable qualities that
no one but herself could be,—this was Adelina.
I will not expatiate upon her beauty; I will not expatiate upon her
intelligence, her quickness of perception, her powers of memory, her
sweet consideration, from the first moment, for the slow-paced tutor who
ministered to her wonderful gifts. I was thirty then; I am over sixty
now: she is ever present to me in these hours as she was in those, bright
and beautiful and young, wise and fanciful and good.
When I discovered that I loved her, how can I say? In the first day? in
the first week? in the first month? Impossible to trace. If I be (as I
am) unable to represent to myself any previous period of my life as quite
separable from her attracting power, how can I answer for this one
detail?
Whensoever I made the discovery, it laid a heavy burden on me. And yet,
comparing it with the far heavier burden that I afterwards took up, it
does not seem to me now to have been very hard to bear. In the knowledge
that I did love her, and that I should love her while my life lasted, and
that I was ever to hide my secret deep in my own breast, and she was
never to find it, there was a kind of sustaining joy or pride, or
comfort, mingled with my pain.
But later on,—say, a year later on,—when I made another discovery, then
indeed my suffering and my struggle were strong. That other discovery
was—
These words will never see the light, if ever, until my heart is dust;
until her bright spirit has returned to the regions of which, when
imprisoned here, it surely retained some unusual glimpse of remembrance;
until all the pulses that ever beat around us shall have long been quiet;
until all the fruits of all the tiny victories and defeats achieved in
our little breasts shall have withered away. That discovery was that she
loved me.
She may have enhanced my knowledge, and loved me for that; she may have
over-valued my discharge of duty to her, and loved me for that; she may
have refined upon a playful compassion which she would sometimes show for
what she called my want of wisdom, according to the light of the world’s
dark lanterns, and loved me for that; she may—she must—have confused the
borrowed light of what I had only learned, with its brightness in its
pure, original rays; but she loved me at that time, and she made me know
it.
Pride of family and pride of wealth put me as far off from her in my
lady’s eyes as if I had been some domesticated creature of another kind.
But they could not put me farther from her than I put myself when I set
my merits against hers. More than that. They could not put me, by
millions of fathoms, half so low beneath her as I put myself when in
imagination I took advantage of her noble trustfulness, took the fortune
that I knew she must possess in her own right, and left her to find
herself, in the zenith of her beauty and genius, bound to poor rusty,
plodding me.
No! Worldliness should not enter here at any cost. If I had tried to
keep it out of other ground, how much harder was I bound to try to keep
it out from this sacred place!
But there was something daring in her broad, generous character, that
demanded at so delicate a crisis to be delicately and patiently
addressed. And many and many a bitter night (O, I found I could cry for
reasons not purely physical, at this pass of my life!) I took my course.
My lady had, in our first interview, unconsciously overstated the
accommodation of my pretty house. There was room in it for only one
pupil. He was a young gentleman near coming of age, very well connected,
but what is called a poor relation. His parents were dead. The charges
of his living and reading with me were defrayed by an uncle; and he and I
were to do our utmost together for three years towards qualifying him to
make his way. At this time he had entered into his second year with me.
He was well-looking, clever, energetic, enthusiastic; bold; in the best
sense of the term, a thorough young Anglo-Saxon.
I resolved to bring these two together.
NINTH CHAPTER
SAID I, one night, when I had conquered myself, ‘Mr. Granville,’—Mr.
Granville Wharton his name was,—‘I doubt if you have ever yet so much as
seen Miss Fareway.’
‘Well, sir,’ returned he, laughing, ‘you see her so much yourself, that
you hardly leave another fellow a chance of seeing her.’
‘I am her tutor, you know,’ said I.
And there the subject dropped for that time. But I so contrived as that
they should come together shortly afterwards. I had previously so
contrived as to keep them asunder; for while I loved her,—I mean before I
had determined on my sacrifice,—a lurking jealousy of Mr. Granville lay
within my unworthy breast.
It was quite an ordinary interview in the Fareway Park but they talked
easily together for some time: like takes to like, and they had many
points of resemblance. Said Mr. Granville to me, when he and I sat at
our supper that night, ‘Miss Fareway is remarkably beautiful, sir,
remarkably engaging. Don’t you think so?’ ‘I think so,’ said I. And I
stole a glance at him, and saw that he had reddened and was thoughtful.
I remember it most vividly, because the mixed feeling of grave pleasure
and acute pain that the slight circumstance caused me was the first of a
long, long series of such mixed impressions under which my hair turned
slowly gray.
I had not much need to feign to be subdued; but I counterfeited to be
older than I was in all respects (Heaven knows! my heart being all too
young the while), and feigned to be more of a recluse and bookworm than I
had really become, and gradually set up more and more of a fatherly
manner towards Adelina. Likewise I made my tuition less imaginative than
before; separated myself from my poets and philosophers; was careful to
present them in their own light, and me, their lowly servant, in my own
shade. Moreover, in the matter of apparel I was equally mindful; not
that I had ever been dapper that way; but that I was slovenly now.
As I depressed myself with one hand, so did I labour to raise Mr.
Granville with the other; directing his attention to such subjects as I
too well knew interested her, and fashioning him (do not deride or
misconstrue the expression, unknown reader of this writing; for I have
suffered!) into a greater resemblance to myself in my solitary one strong
aspect. And gradually, gradually, as I saw him take more and more to
these thrown-out lures of mine, then did I come to know better and better
that love was drawing him on, and was drawing her from me.
So passed more than another year; every day a year in its number of my
mixed impressions of grave pleasure and acute pain; and then these two,
being of age and free to act legally for themselves, came before me hand
in hand (my hair being now quite white), and entreated me that I would
unite them together. ‘And indeed, dear tutor,’ said Adelina, ‘it is but
consistent in you that you should do this thing for us, seeing that we
should never have spoken together that first time but for you, and that
but for you we could never have met so often afterwards.’ The whole of
which was literally true; for I had availed myself of my many business
attendances on, and conferences with, my lady, to take Mr. Granville to
the house, and leave him in the outer room with Adelina.
[Picture: And then these two came before me, hand in hand, and entreated
me that I would unite them]
I knew that my lady would object to such a marriage for her daughter, or
to any marriage that was other than an exchange of her for stipulated
lands, goods, and moneys. But looking on the two, and seeing with full
eyes that they were both young and beautiful; and knowing that they were
alike in the tastes and acquirements that will outlive youth and beauty;
and considering that Adelina had a fortune now, in her own keeping; and
considering further that Mr. Granville, though for the present poor, was
of a good family that had never lived in a cellar in Preston; and
believing that their love would endure, neither having any great
discrepancy to find out in the other,—I told them of my readiness to do
this thing which Adelina asked of her dear tutor, and to send them forth,
husband and wife, into the shining world with golden gates that awaited
them.
It was on a summer morning that I rose before the sun to compose myself
for the crowning of my work with this end; and my dwelling being near to
the sea, I walked down to the rocks on the shore, in order that I might
behold the sun in his majesty.
The tranquillity upon the deep, and on the firmament, the orderly
withdrawal of the stars, the calm promise of coming day, the rosy
suffusion of the sky and waters, the ineffable splendour that then burst
forth, attuned my mind afresh after the discords of the night. Methought
that all I looked on said to me, and that all I heard in the sea and in
the air said to me, ‘Be comforted, mortal, that thy life is so short.
Our preparation for what is to follow has endured, and shall endure, for
unimaginable ages.’
I married them. I knew that my hand was cold when I placed it on their
hands clasped together; but the words with which I had to accompany the
action I could say without faltering, and I was at peace.
They being well away from my house and from the place after our simple
breakfast, the time was come when I must do what I had pledged myself to
them that I would do,—break the intelligence to my lady.
I went up to the house, and found my lady in her ordinary business-room.
She happened to have an unusual amount of commissions to intrust to me
that day; and she had filled my hands with papers before I could
originate a word.
‘My lady,’ I then began, as I stood beside her table.
‘Why, what’s the matter?’ she said quickly, looking up.
‘Not much, I would fain hope, after you shall have prepared yourself, and
considered a little.’
‘Prepared myself; and considered a little! You appear to have prepared
_yourself_ but indifferently, anyhow, Mr. Silverman.’ This mighty
scornfully, as I experienced my usual embarrassment under her stare.
Said I, in self-extenuation once for all, ‘Lady Fareway, I have but to
say for myself that I have tried to do my duty.’
‘For yourself?’ repeated my lady. ‘Then there are others concerned, I
see. Who are they?’
I was about to answer, when she made towards the bell with a dart that
stopped me, and said, ‘Why, where is Adelina?’
‘Forbear! be calm, my lady. I married her this morning to Mr. Granville
Wharton.’
She set her lips, looked more intently at me than ever, raised her right
hand, and smote me hard upon the cheek.
‘Give me back those papers! give me back those papers!’ She tore them
out of my hands, and tossed them on her table. Then seating herself
defiantly in her great chair, and folding her arms, she stabbed me to the
heart with the unlooked-for reproach, ‘You worldly wretch!’
‘Worldly?’ I cried. ‘Worldly?’
‘This, if you please,’—she went on with supreme scorn, pointing me out as
if there were some one there to see,—‘this, if you please, is the
disinterested scholar, with not a design beyond his books! This, if you
please, is the simple creature whom any one could overreach in a bargain!
This, if you please, is Mr. Silverman! Not of this world; not he! He
has too much simplicity for this world’s cunning. He has too much
singleness of purpose to be a match for this world’s double-dealing.
What did he give you for it?’
‘For what? And who?’
‘How much,’ she asked, bending forward in her great chair, and
insultingly tapping the fingers of her right hand on the palm of her
left,—‘how much does Mr. Granville Wharton pay you for getting him
Adelina’s money? What is the amount of your percentage upon Adelina’s
fortune? What were the terms of the agreement that you proposed to this
boy when you, the Rev. George Silverman, licensed to marry, engaged to
put him in possession of this girl? You made good terms for yourself,
whatever they were. He would stand a poor chance against your keenness.’
Bewildered, horrified, stunned by this cruel perversion, I could not
speak. But I trust that I looked innocent, being so.
‘Listen to me, shrewd hypocrite,’ said my lady, whose anger increased as
she gave it utterance; ‘attend to my words, you cunning schemer, who have
carried this plot through with such a practised double face that I have
never suspected you. I had my projects for my daughter; projects for
family connection; projects for fortune. You have thwarted them, and
overreached me; but I am not one to be thwarted and overreached without
retaliation. Do you mean to hold this living another month?’
‘Do you deem it possible, Lady Fareway, that I can hold it another hour,
under your injurious words?’
‘Is it resigned, then?’
‘It was mentally resigned, my lady, some minutes ago.’
Don’t equivocate, sir. _Is_ it resigned?’
‘Unconditionally and entirely; and I would that I had never, never come
near it!’
‘A cordial response from me to _that_ wish, Mr. Silverman! But take this
with you, sir. If you had not resigned it, I would have had you deprived
of it. And though you have resigned it, you will not get quit of me as
easily as you think for. I will pursue you with this story. I will make
this nefarious conspiracy of yours, for money, known. You have made
money by it, but you have at the same time made an enemy by it. _You_
will take good care that the money sticks to you; I will take good care
that the enemy sticks to you.’
Then said I finally, ‘Lady Fareway, I think my heart is broken. Until I
came into this room just now, the possibility of such mean wickedness as
you have imputed to me never dawned upon my thoughts. Your suspicions—’
‘Suspicions! Pah!’ said she indignantly. ‘Certainties.’
‘Your certainties, my lady, as you call them, your suspicions as I call
them, are cruel, unjust, wholly devoid of foundation in fact. I can
declare no more; except that I have not acted for my own profit or my own
pleasure. I have not in this proceeding considered myself. Once again,
I think my heart is broken. If I have unwittingly done any wrong with a
righteous motive, that is some penalty to pay.’
She received this with another and more indignant ‘Pah!’ and I made my
way out of her room (I think I felt my way out with my hands, although my
eyes were open), almost suspecting that my voice had a repulsive sound,
and that I was a repulsive object.
There was a great stir made, the bishop was appealed to, I received a
severe reprimand, and narrowly escaped suspension. For years a cloud
hung over me, and my name was tarnished.
But my heart did not break, if a broken heart involves death; for I lived
through it.
They stood by me, Adelina and her husband, through it all. Those who had
known me at college, and even most of those who had only known me there
by reputation, stood by me too. Little by little, the belief widened
that I was not capable of what was laid to my charge. At length I was
presented to a college-living in a sequestered place, and there I now pen
my explanation. I pen it at my open window in the summer-time, before
me, lying in the churchyard, equal resting-place for sound hearts,
wounded hearts, and broken hearts. I pen it for the relief of my own
mind, not foreseeing whether or no it will ever have a reader.
***
