CHAPTER XI
AN HYPOTHETICAL CASE
There seemed to come to Carl some improvement in his physical condition; but there still came over him hours of great depression and despondency, when even Tom could do little to cheer him.
Dr. Marmion in his correspondence with Bishop Albertson had hitherto made no revelation of Carl's case. But the conviction came upon him that he, himself, was guilty of what he condemned in others and especially in Carl, in allowing the bishop to retain in his service a man who, in the eyes of the law, was a criminal, the perpetrator of a great crime. He concluded to write the bishop an hypothetical letter, describing this case, asking his judgment; and in this way find out what course the bishop would pursue if such a case should come into his life, and he wrote the following:
"MY DEAR BISHOP ALBERTSON: To whom but you can I go for advice in an important matter, which at this time is causing me much perplexity? I feel sure that your conscientious judgment will help me to arrive at an equitable conclusion. To you this may be hypothetical, but to me it is much worse.
"Suppose, then, a young man, well born, and so far well trained, at twenty years of age, away from home, falls into bad company, and, yielding to temptation, commits a great crime, but, escaping by a bit of sagacious stratagem, succeeds in causing his parents to believe that he is dead and mourn him as such, wholly unsuspicious in their minds that he has committed a crime. In the meantime he, in a distant land, lives a useful and honorable life, deeply repenting the sad mishap of his life, and fully redeeming his crime, so that no one but himself and the unhappy parents suffer by his unfortunate act. Furthermore, he occupies a most honorable and useful position, his employer, of course, knowing nothing of his previous misdeeds. Now, as already has been inferred, this young man is living a pure and honorable life, loved by all who know him; but he claims that to reveal to his parents the fact that he is alive would entail more and deeper sorrow upon them than to allow them to continue to believe him dead. He declares that they would suffer less in believing him dead than to know him to be a living criminal.
"Now, my dear Bishop, I write this note to you, calling it hypothetical; but to me, it is more than hypothetical—it is a real case. This young man is one of my patients, and I love him as dearly as if he were my own son for his noble qualities and his sincere penitence, as well as for the pure life he lives. His physical condition is indeed precarious, and I feel sure that his life will be shortened unless he receives relief. Kindly give me your righteous judgment of this case. I have his confidence, and cannot betray it; hence the secrecy of this inquiry.
"Sincerely yours,
"MARMION."
A few days later the doctor received the following:
"MY DEAR DOCTOR MARMION: Your hypothetical (?) note is here. I have read it several times, with increasing interest, and with a prayerful desire to be able to assist you to arrive at a righteous decision in what seems to be a very important matter.
"First. You say (if I understand correctly) that restitution has been made to the parties against whom the crime was perpetrated. That is well and so far satisfactory.
"But, second. The crime was a double one. When that wrong was righted to the first parties, then the second parties, in the deception practiced upon them, suffered more and longer than the parties of the first part, so that really the crime is only partially expiated until the wronged parents are undeceived, and he has made his peace with them. I feel safe in saying that this young man will never be happy, nor his physical condition improved, until he pays the full price of his sin. All who have been wronged must be righted. Depend upon it, his life will be chaotic, unreliable, and unhappy until he makes a clean breast of it to his parents. When he does this, if I were his father, I would take him to my heart, and give him a father's love and forgiveness. If I were his employer, and he came to me honestly confessing his sin, I should not dare to withhold either my confidence or my love. I should pity as a father pities, and I should say: "Go, sin no more."
"Now, my dear Doctor, in conclusion, this son (not you) should be the one to undeceive the parents. I can and do understand the delicate reason which actuates him in fearing to undeceive his parents in regard to his being alive, while they have and do believe him dead. If you can remove this deep impression from his mind, all will soon be right. But he must do this himself, not by letter either, he must go to his father; yes, he must arise and go to his father.
"Affectionately yours,
"ALBERTSON."
The bishop sat in his office six feet away from his secretary, while writing this letter of reply, and when he had concluded it he did as was his custom in his correspondence—passed both letters over to his secretary to read aloud.
In a few moments Carl picked up Marmion's letter. After reading a few sentences he halted, saying: "Bishop, this seems to be a confidential letter. Shall I continue?"
"O, yes," replied the bishop, "there are no names mentioned; read on. I want to know if my answer sounds right, and I can learn that best by hearing it read."
Carl had grasped the spirit and meaning, and he already knew what was coming. But he proceeded and somewhat hesitatingly read it through. Having done this, he was in the act of handing both letters back, when the good bishop, with a wave of his hand, said: "Now read my reply, please, that is the most important thing—read slowly, please."
The dismayed secretary felt that this was indeed crucifixion. Why had not the doctor spared him this? Did he not know that the letter would come under his eye? His first thought was to decline under the plea of nervousness; then, he thought this would be cowardly and unmanly. No, he would read, and at the close would decide. The bishop was a poor scribe, and his writing was always difficult to decipher; so taking this as an excuse, he plodded along slowly, and thereby gave himself a chance to hide his real feelings. But still he found this a difficult task, for his voice trembled perceptibly, and when he came to the latter part, where the father said he would welcome his son back to his home and heart, he stopped, his head dropped upon his hand on the table, and the paper fell from his grasp to the floor. The bishop arose quickly, and caught him in his arms, or he too would have fallen. In a few moments, with the assistance of Alice, Carl was laid upon two chairs. The bishop with the assistance of the registrar, who was hastily summoned from the next room, bore the unconscious secretary into another room and laid him upon the bed.
The terrible strain had been too much for the young man's weak condition. It was not long, however, before he slowly opened his eyes, and, looking up, he saw Alice gazing at him with anxious solicitude, while with her soft hand she was bathing his temples and brow.
Then all the circumstances came back to him, and he heard the gentle voice of the young girl bending over him. "Carl, dear," she was saying, "you are better now, and will soon be all right again."
"Alice," said the young man, faintly, "I shall never be all right again.
It is too late."
"No, it is not too late, Carl," was the smiling reply, "you have many happy years before you. You are not strong. You must have a rest, and then your strength will return and so will your courage."
Mrs. Albertson came in at this point, bringing a cup of tea and a wafer, and succeeded in getting the patient to drink the tea. Then the bishop returned quietly and took a chair by the bedside, and soon both ladies retired.
This incident had been a revelation to the slowly acting powers of the bishop's mind; a quicker perception would have grasped the whole case much sooner, and might have obviated much trouble. But now the revelation had forced itself upon the unsuspecting mind of the prelate. Now he fully understood Dr. Marmion's letter, and, also, the cause of Carl's fainting. All his fatherly instincts were aroused, and taking the hand of the revived youth, he said, very tenderly: "My poor boy."
"O, Bishop," sobbed the young man, "Let me go! Turn me out! I have been a living lie to you and yours."
In his rapidly returning strength he arose as he thus spoke. "Forgive me," he continued, disconsolately, "and let me get away out of your sight. I will disgrace you no longer." He had secured his hat and moved toward the door, but the bishop gently detained him, saying: "Wait, Carl. Do nothing in haste. If you are sufficiently strong let us walk out into the park. The fresh air will help you."
It was a beautiful autumn day. All around them the scene was bright and peaceful. The trees were beginning to cast off their leaves. In the exercise grounds the laughter of the students in their games was heard, emphasizing the happiness of life and the joy of living. They sat down on one of the rustic seats. After a few moments of silence, and when Carl seemed to have become more calm, the bishop in a subdued tone said: "My dear boy, I am glad this hour has come. You have my sincere forgiveness, as well as my unbroken confidence. Let that suffice between you and me; I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven, and I love you more than ever. But, Carl, there is yet another duty which you must perform. It has been left too long undone already. It should have had the first place, but it is not too late."
"I know, I know," interrupted the youth, desperately, "but it is impossible. How can I tell my father and mother that their son lives, and that he is a criminal and a liar? Can I inflict this upon them? They have by this time passed through the bitterest pang in believing me to be dead. Why now bring a deeper sorrow to their hearts?"
"Listen, my son; let me talk a moment without interruption. You are not now responsible for consequences. You owe this debt and it must be paid. It is just as much a part of the debt you owe—yes, just as much as the money that you returned. You cannot repudiate it and retain your self-respect. No man can respect himself any more than he can respect another who is able and yet refuses to pay a just debt. Now, you have paid your debt to the bank, and they have forgiven you. You have confessed your fault to me, and I gladly pardon you, and this confession and repentance enhances my love for you. Now, think you that your father and mother will do less? You are both unjust and unkind to him whom I have known and loved from my earliest manhood; and I must, also, add, that if you still refuse to pay this part of your debt, my confidence in your repentance will be lessened."
"Bishop," said the youth, slowly, as if weighing well his words, "I see it all now. But how can I do this? Can you not, will you not, write to my father?"
"No, Carl," was the reply, "you must, in response to your honest heart, do this yourself, nor must it be done through a letter."
Carl was thoughtful for a few moments. Then he arose. "Bishop," said he,
"I will follow your advice. I will leave at once for England."
"This, my boy," said the bishop, also rising, "is what you must do. I was sure you would see it in this light. It is the only course."
At midnight Carl caught the New York boat, landing in that city in time for early breakfast.
Carl could not pass through the city without calling upon his kind friend Marmion. The Doctor was delighted to see him, and especially when he learned the young man's errand—that he was on his way to pay the last installment of his debt.
He prevailed upon Carl to stay with him until the following Saturday, and then accompanied him to the steamer Europa, on which Carl sailed for Liverpool.