"Yes," he replied; "she has always passed as Miss Halcome, for her mother, who is now dead, kept the secret of her birth even from the girl herself."
"Was the man whose face I noticed the Major's legitimate son?"
"Yes. After a life of horrible dissipation and vice, Major Jackson, by this time Sir Henry Jackson, died, and his son came into the property. Jackson acknowledged his wife soon after leaving Amy, and the awful life which he led this unfortunate woman has often made my heart bleed. I interfered on the evening to which you refer, partly in the hope of saving her further trouble, and partly because I knew the terrible secret of the young people's relationship."
"Is Miss Halcome like her mother in appearance?" I asked.
"Yes; she bears a most remarkable resemblance both in manner and face to what Amy was at her age, though if you had seen Mrs. Halcome a few years back you would hardly have believed it possible; she had grown coarse, and stout, and lost all her good looks, for this style of girlish beauty wears badly. She, however, retained her bright and pleasant manner to the end, though her temper in private was bad. Before Sir Henry's death she was more than his match, and by threats of exposure she managed to extort a considerable sum of money from her former lover. But she did it so discreetly that no breath of scandal was ever whispered against her. She, moreover, never revealed to any one her maiden name, and her family have no idea that she returned to England."
"I am surprised that Jackson cared for any scandal after the life he had lived," I said.
"It would have been the last straw. He was at the time seeking a valuable Government appointment, and though his life was notoriously vile, this did not prevent him obtaining it; but a public scandal in Court is quite a different thing. The conscience of the people of Britain, who know only what the papers tell them, is more sensitive than that of their rulers. I am, however, glad to be able to close this unpleasant account; those chiefly interested are dead. They sowed to the flesh, and of the flesh they reaped corruption and pain. But we must not forget that they are still children of the great Father, loved by Him, though still wandering in the dark and fighting against the law of order and love which can alone bring happiness. Let us hope that now, when they have been freed from the bodies they degraded; their spirits, reclothed, may be purified through the pain which is bound to follow them; for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap, and neither repentance, prayers, nor tears can alter the inevitable harvest."
"Do you not, then," I asked, "believe in repentance and the forgiveness of sins?"
"Certainly," he replied. "Without repentance there can be no upward progress, no hope of salvation; and the Father's forgiveness waits only on our ability to receive it and become conscious of His love. But though the moment we receive our Saviour's lesson and accept the fatherhood of God we know that we are cleansed from all sin, it will not alter the inevitable law of retribution; we must suffer, either now or hereafter. For every sin that we commit, we shall have to give account when the Day of Judgment comes--it may be to-day, or after many years. Of all the detestable doctrines that were ever taught, the creed that a man can sin and by repentance do away with the painful consequences of that act is the most degrading and the most dangerous. It is the outcome of a low animal instinct, which recognizes forgiveness as a purely material quality. As soon as man is brought to understand that by every deed of cruelty, by every mean action, he is raising a lash for his own back, and that as surely as it is raised so shall it fall--not because God wishes to hurt him, but because he is wilfully going out of God's light--then, and not till then, will he learn to love order and strive to follow its rule. The intention which many persons cherish of a future repentance is simply a contemptible form of selfish cowardice, and what is called repentance itself is often little or no better. I have more respect and hope for the man who dies cursing God as he has lived to curse Him, than for the blubbering, repentant sinner who, having by his selfishness fought all through life against his Maker, and having been the damnation of those who crossed his path, thinks to propitiate an angry deity by saying he is sorry. Yes, he is sorry--sorry that he can sin no more, and that the whip is waiting--sorry even, perhaps, that he ever sinned, for he has found out that even in this life it did not pay. But would he take the trouble to repent if he knew that it made no difference to his future happiness or sorrow? If this is so, he is no better than the dog which grovels on its back at the sight of an uplifted cane. Which is the better animal, the one which stands up to take the blow, or the one that lies at your feet? Does the wise master spare the coward and thrash the braver animal? No; if he hits at all he will hit both for their own good; and the one on his back will probably get the worst of it; and so will the repentant sinner.
"But come, we have wandered far enough out of the way, and I have by far the pleasantest part of my story yet to tell. I will go back to the truly repentant sinner whom we left weeping, not for herself or for her own pain, but because she had harmed the man she loved, and God, as she thought, had punished him by death.