In precise proportion, as a man towards the close of his life is harsh and bitter, as he views with loathing not the crime but the criminal, as he ventures to pass severe judgments on his fellow-creatures, so we may be certain his earthly education has been wasted.
It is natural for the young to air their indignation; natural and right, for they cannot conceive the power and might of those temptations which are strong enough to lead wiser people than themselves astray; which meet poor humanity like an armed man; which lurk like lions in the path, yea, are “like lions roaring on their prey.”
In the young, it may reasonably be hoped that intolerance is an outward and visible sign of inexperience and innocence, but in the old and the middle-aged it can be regarded but as a token of folly, as a sign of a Pharasaic rather than a humble spirit; of a mental constitution swift to forget personal sins and to notice defects in others; of a bigoted proneness to measure the corn of all men’s lives out of one bushel; of a pompous giving thanks to God for having made some people so much better than that poor, low, wretched, tabooed publican; of a disposition ready to find a mote in a brother’s eye, forgetful of the beam which was so utterly displeasing in the sight of Him who has with his own lips assured us, that “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.”
CHAPTER VIII.
WOMAN TO WOMAN.
Feminine curiosity, we may take it for granted, is sometimes less keen than feminine grief. If it were otherwise, in what way, I pray you, should any one account for the fact, that some weeks passed away, from the night of Lally’s death, without Heather Dudley knowing all the particulars of Bessie’s existence from the hour when she left Berrie Down, till she reappeared in Lincoln’s Inn Fields?
In truth, the mother’s sorrow was very terrible; so engrossing, that it nearly deadened all desire to ascertain the particulars of another human being’s life; besides which, there was a mystery about Bessie—a mystery Heather, in the midst of her grief, intuitively felt chary of intruding on. She wished no one to hear of her return; she came at night to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and was admitted privily by Tifford, whom probably she had bribed to secrecy, for none of the other servants ever heard of her visits. She wore a ring, a golden wedding-ring, and yet her face was not the face of a happy woman. She volunteered no particulars of the events which had intervened between the time when she stole away from the Hollow like a thief in the night, till she returned to see Lally before she died. She was sweeter than of old, but she was also sadder, and her beauty, neither dimmed nor diminished, was yet changed.
All these things Mrs. Dudley beholding, even through her tears, might have marvelled at, though she never inquired into them, until one day there arrived a note from Bessie, saying, “I can tell you no more, dear Heather, unless you will visit me. Come to me once, at all events; I want to speak to you, and I want to show you something.”
Dressed in her deep mourning, Heather repaired to the address given—a first floor in Roscommon Street, Pentonville.
What a mean street it was—what small, close rooms that pretty Bessie had selected; and yet, when Heather came to sit down beside the fire, with her old friend’s hand clasping hers, she forgot all the words of remonstrance she had intended to speak, and listened to Bessie’s sorrowful apologies.
“It is not exactly the kind of parlour I should have liked to ask you to spend a day in, Heather,” she said; “but beggars, you know, cannot be choosers; and I wanted to talk to you so much—so much—and to show you something, if you do not mind.”