CHAPTER XII.—THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA.
Fairchild became a frequent visitor at our house, and an ever-welcome one. His good looks, his good sense, his droll humour, his honesty, his high spirits, made him an extremely pleasant companion. We all liked him cordially; we were always glad to see him. I told him that if pot-luck had no terrors for him, he must feel at liberty to drop in and dine with us whenever his inclination prompted and his leisure would permit. He took me at my word, as I meant he should; and from that time forth he broke bread with us never seldomer than one evening out of the seven.
At the end of a month, or perhaps six weeks, Josephine said to me, “Do you think it well, Leonard, that two young people of opposite sexes should be thrown together as frequently and as closely as Mr. Fairchild and Miriam are?”
“Why not?” questioned I.
“The reasons are obvious. How would you be pleased if they should fall in love?”
“The Lord forbid! But I see no danger of their doing so.”
“There is always danger when a beautiful young girl and a spirited young man see too much of each other.”
“But Fairchild pays no more attention to Miriam than he does to you or to me. They are never left alone together. They are simply good friends.”
“As yet, perhaps, yes. But time can change friendship into love. He begins, you must remember, with the liveliest and most profound admiration for her; she, with the deepest sense of gratitude towards him. True, as you say, they are never left alone together—not exactly alone, that is. But are they not virtually alone when you and I are seated here in the library over our backgammon-board, and he and she are therein the drawing-room at the piano?”
“But, my dear sister, the two rooms are as one. The folding doors are never closed.”
“True again: we are all within sight and hearing of one another. But as a matter of fact, you and I give no heed to them, nor do they to us. There are certain laws of nature which should not be ignored.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?” I enquired rather testily. “Shall I forbid Fairchild the house? Forbid my house to the man who saved my life?”
“Oh, no, of course not. You know I could not wish such a thing as that. Mr. Fairchild's claims upon our gratitude must never be forgotten. And besides, I like him, and I enjoy his visits as heartily as you do. Only——”
“Only what? If I don't forbid him the house, how can I prevent him and Miriam meeting? Shall I direct her to keep her room whenever he comes?”
“I do think, brother, it would be well if she were not always present when he comes. If you wish to hear my honest opinion, I believe it is to see her that he comes so often, and not to see a couple of sober, elderly folk like you and me. I cannot think that you and I are so irresistibly attractive as to draw him to our house as frequently as once or twice a week. However, I only wished to call your attention to the matter. It is for you now to act as your best judgment dictates.”
“Well, then, my good Josephine, I shall not act at all. There is no occasion for my acting. I should be most unjust and unreasonable to prevent these two young people getting what innocent pleasure they can from each other's friendship and society, simply because in the abstract it is true that they are not incapable of falling in love. I might, as reasonably enjoin Miriam against ever going out of doors, because it is possible that in the street she might be run over; against ever drinking a glass of water, because it is possible that the water might contain a disease-germ. You have conjured up a chimera. Your fears are those of a too imaginative woman. When I perceive the first symptom of anything sentimental existing between them, it will be time enough to act.”
“Perhaps then, Leonard, it will be too late,” retorted Josephine, and with that she dropped the subject.
Well, of course, as the reader has foreseen, that very complication which my sister feared and warned me of, and which I refused to consider—of course that very complication came to pass. Fairchild fell in love with Miriam, and Miriam reciprocated his unfortunate passion. Otherwise his name would never have been introduced into this narrative; or, rather, there would have been no such narrative for me to recite.
In June, 1888, Josephine, Miriam, and I went down to the little village of Ogunquit, on the coast of Wade, there to rusticate until the autumn. Toward the end of July, Fairchild joined us there, pursuant to an arrangement made before we left town; and it was on the evening of the 15th of August that he requested a few minutes' private talk with me, and then informed me of the condition of affairs.
“I love your niece with all my heart and soul, Dr. Benary. Indeed, I have loved her from the day I first became acquainted with her—the day of that blessed Blizzard. I should like to know, who could help loving her: she is so good and so intelligent, to say nothing of her beauty. To-day I emptied my heart out to her, and she has made me the happiest man in Christendom by signifying her willingness to become my wife. So, now, it only remains for you to give us your approval and benediction. I have an income sufficient to keep the wolf from the door, over and above my earnings; and for the rest, you know me well enough to judge of my eligibility for yourself.”
What answer could I give him?
Putting aside altogether, as I was bound to do, the selfish consideration that her marriage would deprive us of the treasure and the blessing of our old age, and leave our home desolate and forsaken—could I in honour, could I in justice to the man, permit him to make Miriam Benary his wife, without first imparting to him so much as I myself knew concerning Louise Massarte?
But the latter was a thing which, I was persuaded, I had no manner of right to do. The secret of her connection with Louise Massarte, Miriam herself was ignorant of. Surely, no other human being had the shadow of a claim to learn it Miriam Benary had never even heard of Louise Massarte. Louise Massarte was dead and abolished utterly. Therefore, to saddle Miriam, in her youth and her innocence, with that dead woman's name and history, to put upon her the burden of the dead woman's sin and shame, it would be to do her not only a most grievous, but a most unwarrantable, wrong.
No, I could not, I would not, I must not, tell Fairchild the story of Louise Massarte's annihilation, and the consequent existence of Miriam Benary. Yet how could I say, “Yes, you may marry her,” and keep that story to myself? What excuse could I invent wherewith to ease my conscience, if I should practise such deceit upon him in an issue that involved his dearest and most vital interests? Suppressio veri, suggestio falsi. I should be as bad as any liar if I gave my consent to their marriage, while allowing him to remain in error respecting the truth about his bride—truth which, if made known to him, might radically modify his intentions.
But furthermore, and on the other hand, suppose I should say in reply to his demand, “No, you cannot marry her”—what right had I to say that? What reason could I allege in justification of my refusal? Not the actual reason; for that would be to tell him the very story which, I had made up my mind, I must not and should not tell. And if I alleged a fictitious reason, I should simply escape the devil to plunge into the deep sea—I should simply exchange a lie for a falsehood. These young people loved each other. Therefore, to set up impediments to their union, would be to impose upon each of them endless unmerited pain. What right had I to do that? It was a vexed and difficult quandary. There were strong arguments for and strong arguments against either course out of it.
“Well, Dr. Benary, you do not answer me,” Fairchild said.
“I can't answer you. You must give me time—time to consider, to consult my sister, to make up my mind.”
We had been strolling together, he and I, up and down the sands. Now we returned to the inn. Josephine was seated on the verandah, near the entrance.
“Ah, Leonard, at last!” she exclaimed, starting up the moment she caught sight of me. “I have been waiting for you.”
I accompanied her to her room.
“Well,” she began, as soon as the door was closed behind us, “the worst has happened, as I suppose you know. Mr. Fairchild has spoken to you, has he not?”
“Ah! Then you, too, know about it?” queried I.
“Miriam has just told me the whole story.”
“What does she say?”
“That Mr. Fairchild has asked her to be his wife; that she loves him, and has accepted him—conditionally, that is, upon your approval.”
“She says she loves him?”
“She says she loves him with all her heart. She says she is as happy as the day is long. She doesn't dream that you will have any hesitation about consenting.”
For a little while we were silent. At last, “Well, what are you going to do?” my sister asked.
“That is what I wish to advise with you about.”
“Have you given any answer to Mr. Fair-child?”
“I have said to him that I must take time for reflection, and for consultation with you.”
“Well?”
“Well, it is a most difficult dilemma.”
“But you have got to make up your mind, one way or the other; and that speedily. It is cruel to keep them in suspense.”
“I know that, my dear sister.”
“Do you mean to say yes or no?”
“That's just it. That's just the difficulty, isn't it?”
“But it is a difficulty which must be solved. You will have to say one of the two.”
“How dare I say yes?”
“They love each other.”
“What right have I to say no?”
“It is their life-happiness which is at stake.”
“Exactly, exactly; therefore, if I say no, it will be to condemn them both to great misery, and misery which they have done nothing to deserve.”
“It certainly will—it will break Miriam's heart. And what reason can you give them for saying no? It will seem all the harder to them, because it will seem so unreasonable and unnecessary, so unjustifiable and wanton. They will feel that it is an act of wilful cruelty, on the part of a selfish, tyrannical old man.”
“I know it, I know it,” I groaned. “And yet, on the other hand, if I say yes——”
“If you say yes, you will assure to them the greatest happiness their hearts can desire.”
“But how dare I say yes without sharing with Fairchild the secret of Miriam's origin? Without telling him the story of Louise Massarte?”
“Surely, you cannot purpose doing that! You cannot mean to confide to another knowledge affecting her which she herself is unaware of!”
“No, of course not. But there's just the rub. How, without doing that, how can I honourably permit him to make her his wife?”
“It is a choice of evils: to break their hearts or to suppress certain facts. You must choose the lesser evil of the two.”
“That is very easily said. But the trouble is to determine which of the two evils is the lesser. Deceit or cruelty?”
“Forgive me, my dear brother, for reminding you of it: but if you had listened to my warning in the first place, this painful alternative would never have come about.”
“What could I do? You yourself agreed with me that I couldn't forbid Fairchild the house. And so long as he had the run of the house, how could I prevent him and Miriam meeting? And meeting as frequently as they did, I suppose it was inevitable that they should come to love each other. There's no use reproaching me—no use regretting the past. What was bound to happen has happened. That's the whole truth of it.”
“I did not intend to reproach you, Leonard. I merely wished to say that, since, in a manner, you have been responsible for the state of things which has come to pass—since, in other words, you neglected to take such measures as would have prevented that state of things from coming to pass—it seems as if now you were under a sort of moral obligation not to stand between them and their happiness. The time for action was the outset. You did not act then. It seems as if you had thereby forfeited your right to act. Since you have allowed things to go so far, it seems as if you had no right to forbid their going farther.”
“That is to say, you counsel me to consent.”
“I do not see how you can do otherwise now. It is too late for you to step in and separate them.”
“And the point of honour? I am to suppress the truth? I am to stand still and suffer Fair-child to make Miriam his wife, in ignorance of certain facts which, if he were aware of them, might totally change his feeling? How can I do that? It would lie for ever on my conscience.”
“So far from totally changing his feeling I do not believe those facts, if Fairchild knew them, would weigh with him so much as one hair's weight. They would not, if his love for Miriam is love in any vital sense of the word. He would agree with us in looking upon her as an entirely different person from Louise Massarte. However, he must not know, he must not even dream those facts. Therefore, as I said before, it is a choice of evils. The negative evil of suppressing the truth does not seem to me so great as the positive evil of inflicting pain. Besides, after all, is it not Miriam's prerogative to decide this matter for herself? What right have you or I to do anything but stand aside, with hands off, and let her choose her husband without constraint or interference? She is of full age and sound mind; and our relationship with her, which would give us our pretence for interfering, is, as you know, only a fiction She could not wish for a better husband than Mr. Fairchild. No woman could.”
“What you say, my dear Josephine, and what you suggest, are Jesuitry, pure and simple.”
“There come emergencies in which Jesuitry is the only feasible policy.”
A long silence followed. In the end, “Where is Miriam now?” I asked.
“She was in her room when I left her.”
“Will you find her, and send her to me? Or rather, bring her. You must be present, too, to lend me countenance—to give me moral support in the grossly immoral action which I am going to perpetrate. I feel like a pickpocket. I need the encouragement of my accomplice.”
Josephine went off. In three minutes she returned, leading Miriam by the hand.
Miriam's cheeks and throat turned crimson as she saw me; and she dropped her eyes, and stood still, waiting.
“My dear——” I called, holding out my hands.
She came to me, and put her arms around my neck, and buried her face upon my shoulder.
“So this young rascal of a sculptor has asked you to be his wife?” I began.
“Yes,” she murmured, scarcely louder than a whisper.
“And so—the double-faced rogue!—it was not, as we had supposed, because of his great fondness for your aunt and uncle, that he became a frequenter of our camp, but because he had covetous designs upon our chief treasure!”
“Oh! but he is very fond of my aunt and uncle, too,” she protested.
“Is he, indeed! Well, what answer have you given him?”
“I said—I said I—I said I liked him.”
“Ah! I see. You said you liked him. That was rather irrelevant, wasn't it?—a little evasive? He asked you to become his wife, and you said you liked him. Did you give him no more categorical an answer than that?”
“I said he must ask you.”
“Ask me? Ask me what? It isn't I that he wants to marry. And I wouldn't have him, anyhow. Why should he ask me?”
“You know what I mean. I told him I could not marry without your consent.”
“And suppose I should withhold my consent?”
“I should be very unhappy.”
“But I don't really see what my consent matters. It's for you to decide. You're of full age. I have no right to forbid you. Now, then, what are you going to do?”
“I said I would be his wife, unless you wished otherwise.”
“Well, I suppose you must keep your word. The poor fellow is waiting on the anxious seat to learn his fate. I really think, instead of tarrying here, you ought to seek him out, and put an end to his suspense.”
She hugged me and kissed me, and said some very jubilant and some very complimentary things; and then she began to cry, and then she laughed through her tears; and at last she went off to find her lover, and to convey to him the joyful tidings.
They were married on the 15th day of December, and that same afternoon they set sail for Havre aboard the steamship La Touraine, to pass six months abroad. Anxiously did Josephine and I count the days that must elapse before the post would bring us their first letter; and little did we dream what ominous news that letter would contain.