Foxglove Manor: A Novel, Volume 3 (of 3)

by Robert Williams Buchanan

Ah! but the man was right, when he had torn his soul open and showed the cancerous sore within it. He had broken the laws of God, and he had lost eternally what he loved. There was no justification for him—none. He had been an adulterer in thought, if not in deed—a hypocrite, hiding a loathsome lust under the garment of religion. Why had he not been warned in time? He might, have known that the man he had to deal with—a man who believed in nothing—would pause at nothing. He remembered, too late, that monkish tale of jealousy and murder, which might have told him, had he not been so mad, what was lurking so pitilessly in the man’s mind. It was little comfort now to reflect that he was innocent in act. The consequences had been the same, as horrible, as irrevocable; as if he had sinned seventy times and seven. By his abominable solicitation, he had betrayed the woman he adored. Yes, he had killed her! What hope could there be for him, in this world or another, after that?

Nevertheless, he hastened on, fighting with his own thoughts in the darkness stumbling through the drifted snow. He found the avenue and entered it—passing into deeper darkness, hearing the wind shriek more loudly on every side. The police barrack was at Omberley, five miles distant. He would hasten there without delay, tell what had taken place, and return with the officers that night. He would not rest until he had the murderer bound and captured: for even yet, if he did come back quickly, he might escape.

Then he thought of all the shame, the scandal, which must assuredly come with the revelation of the truth. The women who had thought him almost a sainted creature, the villagers who had watched him with simple reverence—all who had respected him and heard the gospel of love from his lips, would point at him as a shameless creature, a scandal to his holy office. He could never mount the pulpit again, or walk in the sun. They would strip the priestly raiment from his back, and hound him away into the world. Even his own sister, who thought him the purest and best of men, would shrink from him with loathing; nay, how could he look her, or any pure creature, in the face?

All that, and more, he thought, could have been borne, could he only have restored the dead to life. His own fall and degradation would have been a trifle, if he had not sacrificed that sainted being—the woman of his early love, the creature of his idolatry, the object of his insane and fatal passion. She had suffered for his guilt, but she had not atoned for it. Nothing could atone, nothing. How gladly that night would he have died, if by death he could have restored her to the sunshine of the world!

Then, in his despair, he reproached her God—the God who had made her so beautiful, and him so weak. Why had God ever brought them together? Why, having once separated them, had He ever caused them to meet again? It was cruel, unmerciful, to tempt a man so much! He had only asked for a little love, and without love life was so dark. And before temptation came, had he not done God good service? More than one doubting heart had been turned, by his persuasion, back to the faith of Christ; more than one erring sinner had, through him, been led back, penitent and weeping, to the Church’s fold! All men had respected him for his blameless life, for his good deeds.

He had been kind to the suffering, generous to the poor. He had been an example of Christian charity to his fellows. He had reflected honour on the university which gave him to the Church, and on the Church which had accepted him into her bosom. Though so young, he had risen high, by his own talents, his intelligence, his own blameless character. And now he had lost everything, because he had pined for a little sympathy, a little love.

As these thoughts passed through his brain, his eyes were blinded with tears, and, in utter self-pity, he sobbed aloud.

How dark it was! how miserably dark and cold! He could not see an inch before him, could not even perceive the white ground beneath his feet; but the wind wailed louder and louder on every side.

He remembered how gladly, the previous day, he had proclaimed the good tidings of the birth of Christ. The bells had rung, and from every side, over the white landscape, cold, but cheerful and light with sunshine, the people had come gathering in—rich and poor, old and young, all gaily clad for Christmas-tide. He had stood away—stoled in the pulpit, and had seen the shining faces upturned reverently to his, and had heard the clear voices ring out in happiness and praise. Ah, it had been a beautiful time! Only yesterday, and already it seemed so far away!

In his misery, he quite forgot how much and how often he had fretted under the yoke of his priestly duties; how he had despised the ignoble natures of his flock; how he had panted again and again for a freer life and for more eventful days! What he had lost for ever now seemed strangely dear. As he reviewed his life in the village, he remembered none of its cares, none of its indignities; it seemed all peaceful, all beautiful,’ now! Yes, it was heaven, though he had not known it; heaven, though he had fallen from it. And he could never return to it again; never preach in the church, never minister to man or woman, never know the blessing and the peace of a divine vocation any more!