Chapter 12

Next week there was another tea-party at Mrs. Cobb’s. The ladies were in high spirits, for a subject of conversation was assured. If there had been an inquest, or a marriage, or a highway robbery before one of these parties, or if the contents of a will had just been made known, or still better, if any scandal had just come to light, the guests were always cheerful. Now, of course, the topic was Dr. Midleton and Mrs. Fairfax.

“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 archæology?”

“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 Archæological 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, archæology.”

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.