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Mark Rutherford >> Pages from a Journal with Other Papers
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"When I found him in that back parlour," said Mrs. Harrop, "I thought he
wasn't there to pay the usual call. Somehow it didn't seem as if he was
like a clergyman. I felt quite queer: it came over me all of a sudden.
And then we know he's been there once or twice since."
"I don't wonder at your feeling queer, Mrs. Harrop," quoth Mrs. Cobb.
"I'm sure I should have fainted; and what brazen boldness to walk out
together on the Common at nine o'clock in the morning. That girl who
brought in the tea--it's my belief that a young man goes after her--but
even they wouldn't demean themselves to be seen at it just after
breakfast."
"You don't mean to say as your Deborah encourages a man, Mrs. Cobb! I
don't know what we are a-comin' to. You've always been so particular,
and she seemed so respectable. I AM sorry."
Mrs. Cobb did not quite relish Mrs. Harrop's pity.
"You may be sure, Mrs. Harrop, she was respectable when I took her, and
if she isn't I shan't keep her. I AM particular, more so than most
folk, and I don't mind who knows it." Mrs. Cobb threw back her cap
strings. The denial that she minded who knew it may not appear
relevant, but desiring to be spiteful she could not at the moment find a
better way of showing her spite than by declaring her indifference to
the publication of her virtues. If there was no venom in the substance
of the declaration there was much in the manner of it. Mrs. Bingham
brought back the conversation to the point.
"I suppose you've heard what Mrs. Jenkins says? Your husband also, Mrs.
Harrop, met them both."
"Yes he did. He was not quite in time to see as much as Mrs. Jenkins
saw, and I'm glad he didn't. I shouldn't have felt comfortable if I'd
known he had. A clergyman, too! it is shocking. A nice business, this,
for the Dissenters."
"Well," said Mrs. Bingham, "what are we to do? I had thought of going
to her and giving her a bit of my mind, but she has got that yellow gown
to make. What is your opinion, Miss Tarrant?"
"I would not degrade myself, Mrs. Bingham, by any expostulations with
her. I would have nothing more to do with her. Could you not relieve
her of the unfinished gown? Mrs. Swanley, I am sure, under the
circumstances would be only too happy to complete it for you."
"Mrs. Swanley cannot come near her. I should look ridiculous in her
body and one of Swanley's skirts."
"As to the Doctor," continued Miss Tarrant, "I wonder that he can expect
to maintain any authority in matters of religion if he marries a
dressmaker of that stamp. It would be impossible even if her character
were unimpeachable. I am astonished, if he wishes to enter into the
matrimonial state, that he does not seek some one who would be able to
support him in his position and offer him the sympathy which a man who
has had a University education might justifiably demand."
Mrs. Sweeting had hitherto listened in silence. Miss Tarrant provoked
her.
"It's all a fuss about nothing, that's my opinion. What has she done
that you know to be wrong? And as to the Doctor, he's got a right to
please himself. I'm surprised at you, Miss Tarrant, for YOU'VE always
stuck for him through thick and thin. As for that Mrs. Jenkins, I'll
take my Bible oath that the last time she washed for me she stunk of gin
enough to poison me, and went away with two bits of soap in her pocket.
You may credit what she says: _I_ don't, and never demean myself to
listen to her."
The ladies came to no conclusion. Mrs. Bingham said that she had
suggested a round robin to Dr. Midleton, but that her husband decidedly
"discountenanced the proposal." Within a fortnight the election of
governors was to take place. There was always a fight at these
elections, and this year the Radicals had a strong list. The Doctor,
whose term of office had expired, was the most prominent of the Tory and
Church candidates, and never doubted his success. He was ignorant of
all the gossip about him. One day in that fortnight he might have been
seen in Ferry Street. He went into Mrs. Fairfax's shop and was invited
as before into the back parlour.
"I have brought you a basket of pears, and the book I promised you, the
Utopia." He sat down. "I am afraid you will think my visits too
frequent."
"They are not too frequent for me: they may be for yourself."
"Ah! since I last entered your house I have not seen any books excepting
my own. You hardly know what life in Langborough is like."
"Does nobody take any interest in archaeology?"
"Nobody within five miles. Sinclair cares nothing about it: he is Low
Church, as I have told you."
"Why does that prevent his caring about it?"
"Being Low Church he is narrow-minded, or, perhaps it would be more
correct to say, being narrow-minded he is Low Church. He is an
indifferent scholar, and occupies himself with his religious fancies and
those of his flock. He can reign supreme there. He is not troubled in
that department by the difficulties of learning and is not exposed to
criticism or contradiction."
"I suppose it is a fact of the greatest importance to him that he and
his parishioners have souls to be saved, and that in comparison with
that fact others are immaterial."
"We all believe we have souls to be saved. Having set forth God's way
of saving them we have done all we ought to do. God's way is not
sufficient for Sinclair. He enlarges it out of his own head, and
instructs his silly, ignorant friends to do the same. He will not be
satisfied with what God and the Church tell him."
"God and the Church, according to Dr. Midleton's account, have not been
very effective in Langborough."
"They hear from me, madam, all I am commissioned to say, and if they do
not attend I cannot help it"
"I have read your paper in the Archaeological Transactions on the
history of Langborough Abbey. It excited my imagination, which is never
excited in reading ordinary histories. In your essay I am in company
with the men who actually lived in the time of Henry the Second and
Henry the Eighth. I went over the ruins again, and found them much more
beautiful after I understood something about them."
"Yes: exactly what I have said a hundred times: knowledge is
indispensable."
"If you had not pointed it out, I should never have noticed the Early
English doorway in the Chapter-house, so distinct in style from the
Refectory."
"You noticed the brackets of that doorway: you noticed the quatrefoils
in the head? The Refectory is later by three centuries, and is
exquisite, but is not equal to the Chapter-house."
"Yes, I noticed the brackets and quatrefoils particularly. If knowledge
is not necessary in order that we may admire, its natural tendency is to
deepen our admiration. Without it we pass over so much. In my own
small way I have noticed how my slight botanical knowledge of flowers by
the mere attention involved increases my wonder at their loveliness."
There was the usual interruption by the shop-bell. How he hated that
bell! Mrs. Fairfax answered it, closing the parlour door. The customer
was Mrs. Bingham.
"I will not disturb you now, Mrs. Fairfax. I was going to say something
about the black trimming you recommended. I really think red would suit
me better, but, never mind, I will call again as I saw the Doctor come
in. He is rather a frequent visitor."
"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 friendship with me were to do you any
harm."
The Doctor rose in a passion, planting his stick on the floor.
"When the cackling of the geese or the braying of the asses 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 passion for you, and it is a reverence for a mind to which it will
be a perpetual joy to submit."
"God 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 assumption
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 petitions 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 trespassed. He was not in want of his daily
bread, and although he desired like all good men to see the Kingdom of
God, 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 God 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 nobody 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 coarse 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 hell, that they are in danger of
damnation. 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 Saturday 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. Nobody 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."
Nobody 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 assumption 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."
Eighteen months passed. The doctor one day was unpacking a book he had
bought at Peterborough. Inside the brown paper was a copy of the
Stamford Mercury, a journal which had a wide circulation in the
Midlands. He generally read it, but he must have omitted to see this
number. His eye fell on the following announcement--"On the 24th June
last, Richard Leighton, aged 44 years." The notice was late, for the
date of the paper was the 18th November. The next afternoon he was in
London. He had been to Great Ormond Street before and had inquired for
Mrs. Fairfax, but could find no trace of her. He now called again.
"You will remember," he said, "my inquiry about Mrs. Fairfax: can you
tell me anything about Mrs. Leighton?" He put his hand in his pocket
and pulled out five shillings.
"She isn't here: she went away when her husband died."
"He died abroad?"
"Yes."
"Where has she gone?"
"Don't know quite: her friends wouldn't have anything to do with her.
She said she was going to Plymouth. She had heard of something in the
dressmaking line there."
He handed over his five shillings, procured a substitute for next
Sunday, and went to Plymouth. He wandered through the streets but could
see no dressmaker's shop which looked as if it had recently changed
hands. He walked backwards and forwards on the Hoe in the evening: the
Eddystone light glimmered far away on the horizon; and the dim hope
arose in him that it might be a prophecy of success, but his hope was
vain. It came into his mind that it was not likely that she would be
there after dusk, and he remembered her preference for early exercise.
The first morning was a failure, but on the second--it was sunny and
warm--he saw her sitting on a bench facing the sea. He went up
unobserved and sat down. She did not turn towards him till he said
"Mrs. Leighton!" She started and recognised him. Little was spoken as
they walked home to her lodgings, a small private house. On her way she
called at a large shop where she was employed and obtained leave of
absence until after dinner.
"At last!" said the doctor when the door was shut.
She stood gazing in silence at the dull red cinder of the dying fire.
"You put the advertisement in the Stamford Mercury?" he said.
"Yes."
"I did not see it until a day or two ago."
"I had better tell you at once. My husband, whom you knew, was
convicted of forgery, and died at Botany Bay." Her eyes still watched
the red cinders.
The Doctor's countenance showed no surprise, for no news could have had
any power over the emotion which mastered him. The long, slow years
were fulfilled. Long and slow and the fulfilment late, but the joy it
brought was the greater. Youthful passion is sweet, but it is not
sweeter than the discovery when we begin to count the years which are
left to us, and to fear there will be nothing in them better than in
those which preceded them that for us also love is reserved.
Mrs. Leighton was obliged to go back to her work in the afternoon, but
she gave notice that night to leave in a week.
In a couple of months Langborough was astounded at the news of the
Rector's marriage with a Mrs. Leighton whom nobody in Langborough knew.
The advertisement in the Stamford Mercury said that the lady was the
widow of Richard Leighton, Esq., and eldest daughter of the late
Marmaduke Sutton, Esq. Langborough spared no pains to discover who she
was. Mrs. Bingham found out that the Suttons were a Devonshire family,
and she ascertained from an Exeter friend that Mr. Marmaduke Sutton was
the son of an Honourable, and that Mrs. Leighton was consequently a
high-born lady. She had married as her first husband a man who had done
well at Cambridge, but who took to gambling and drink, and treated her
with such brutality that they separated. At last he forged a signature
and was transported. What became of his wife afterwards was not known.
Langborough was not only greatly moved by this intelligence, but was
much perplexed. Miss Tarrant's estimate of the Doctor was once more
reversed. She was decidedly of opinion that the marriage was a scandal.
A woman who had consented to link herself with such a reprobate as the
convict must have been from the beginning could not herself have
possessed any reputation. Living apart, too, was next door to divorce,
and who could associate with a creature who had been divorced? No doubt
she was physically seductive, and the doctor had fallen a victim to her
snares. Miss Tarrant, if she had not known so well what men are, would
never have dreamed that Dr. Midleton, a scholar and a divine, could
surrender to corporeal attractions. She declared that she could no
longer expect any profit from his ministrations, and that she should
leave the parish. Miss Tarrant's friends, however, did not go quite so
far, and Mrs. Harrop confessed to Mrs. Cobb that "she for one wouldn't
lay it down like Medes and Persians, that we should have nothing to do
with a woman because her husband had made a fool of himself. I'm not a
Mede nor a Persian, Mrs. Cobb. I say let us wait and see what she is
like."
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