For Faith and Freedom

by Walter Besant

  CHAPTER LI.

  THE CONFESSION.

  Now am I come to the last event of this history, and I have towrite down the confession of my own share in that event. For theothers--for Alice and for Robin--the thing must be considered as thecrown and completion of all the mercies. For me--what is it? But youshall hear. When the secrets of all hearts are laid open, then willAlice hear it also: what she will then say, or what think, I knownot. It was done for her sake--for her happiness have I laid thisguilt upon my soul. Nay, when the voice of conscience doth exhort meto repent, and to confess my sin, then there still ariseth within mysoul, as it were, the strain of a joyful hymn, a song of gratitudethat I was enabled to return her to freedom and the arms of the manshe loved. If any learned Doctor of Divinity, or any versed in thatscience which the Romanists love (they call it casuistry), shouldhappen to read this chapter of confession, I pray that they considermy case, even though it will then be useless as far as I myself amconcerned, seeing that I shall be gone before a Judge who will, Ihope (even though my earthly affections do not suffer me to separatemy sin from the consequences which followed), be more merciful thanI have deserved.

  While, then, I stood watching this signal example of God's wrath,I was plucked gently by the sleeve, and, turning, saw one whosecountenance I knew not. He was dressed as a lawyer, but his gown wasragged, and his bands yellow; he looked sunk in poverty; and hisface was inflamed with those signs which proclaim aloud the habit ofimmoderate drinking.

  'Sir,' he said, 'if I mistake not, you are Dr. Humphrey Challis?'

  'The same, Sir; at your service,' I replied with some misgivings.And yet, being one of the Prince's following, there needed none.

  'I have seen you, Sir, in the chambers of your cousin, Mr. BenjaminBoscorel, my brother learned in the law. We drank together, though(I remember) you still passed the bottle. It is now four or fiveyears ago. I wonder not that you have forgotten me. We changequickly, we who are the jolly companions of the bottle; we drink ournoses red, and we paint our cheeks purple; nay, we drink ourselvesout of our last guinea, and out of our very apparel. What then, Sir?a short life and a merry. Sir, yonder is a sorry sight. The firstLaw Officer of the Crown thus to be haled along the streets by ahowling mob. Ought such a thing to be suffered? 'Tis a sad and sorrysight, I say!'

  'Sir,' I replied hotly, 'ought such villains as Judge Jeffreys to besuffered to live?'

  He considered a little, as one who is astonished and desires tocollect his thoughts. Perhaps he had already taken more than amorning draught.

  'I remember now,' he said. 'My memory is not so good as it was. Wedrink that away as well. Yes, I remember--I crave your forgiveness,Doctor. You were yourself engaged with Monmouth. Your cousin told meas much. Naturally you love not this good Judge, who yet did nothingbut what the King, his master, ordered him to do. I, Sir, have oftenhad the honour of sitting over a bottle with his Lordship. When hisinfirmities allowed (though not yet old, he is grievously afflicted)he had no equal for a song or a jest, and would drink so long as anywere left to keep him company. Ha! they have knocked him down--nowthey will kill him. No; he is again upon his feet; those who protecthim close in. So--they have passed out of our sight. Doctor, shallwe crack a flask together? I have no money, unhappily; but I willwith pleasure drink at your expense.'

  I remembered the man's face now, but not his name. 'Twas one ofBen's boon companions. Well; if hard drinking brings men so speedilyto rags and poverty, even though it be a merry life (which I doubt),give me moderation.

  'Pray, Sir,' I said coldly, 'to have me excused. I am no drinker.'

  'Then, Doctor, you will perhaps lend me, until we meet again, asingle guinea?'

  I foolishly complied with this request.

  'Doctor, I thank you,' he said. 'Will you now come and drink withme at my expense? Sir, I say plainly, you do not well to refusea friendly glass. I could tell you many things, if you would butdrink with me, concerning my Lord Jeffreys. There are things whichwould make you laugh. Come, Doctor; I love not to drink alone. Yourcousin, now, was always ready to drink with any man, until he fellill'--

  'How? is my cousin ill?'

  'Assuredly; he is sick unto death. Yesterday I went to visit him,thinking to drink a glass with him, and perhaps to borrow a guineaor two, but found him in bed and raving. If you will drink withme, Doctor, I can tell you many curious things about your cousin.And now I remember, you were sent to the Plantations; your cousintold me so. You have returned before your time. Well, the Kinghath run away; you are, doubtless, safe. Your cousin hath gottenhis grandfather's estate. Lord Jeffreys, who loved him mightily,procured that grant for him. When your cousin wakes at night heswears that he sees his grandfather by his bedside looking at himreproachfully, so that he drinks the harder; 'tis a merry life. Hehath also married a wife, and she ran away from him at the churchdoor, and he now cannot hear of her or find her anywhere, so that hecurses her and drinks the harder. Oh! 'tis always the jolliest dog.They say that he is not the lawyer that he was, and that his clientsare leaving him. All mine have left me long since. Come and drinkwith me, Doctor.'

  I broke away from the poor toper who had drunk up his wits as wellas his money, and hurried to my cousin's chambers, into which I hadnot thought to enter save as one who brings reproaches--a uselessburden.

  Benjamin was lying in bed: an old crone sat by the fire, nodding.Beside her was a bottle, and she was, I found, half drunk. Her Iquickly sent about her business. No one else had been attending him.Yet he was laid low, as I presently discovered, with that kind offever which is bred in the villainous air of our prisons--the samefever which had carried off his grandfather.

  Perhaps, if there were no foul and stinking wards, jails, andclinks, this kind of fever would be banished altogether, and beno more seen. So, if we could discover the origin and cause ofall diseases, we might once more restore man to his primitivecondition, which I take to have been one free from any kind ofdisease or infirmity, designed at first by his Creator so to livefor ever, and, after the Fall, enabled (when medicine shall be sofar advanced) to die of old age after such prolongation of life andstrength as yet we cannot even understand.

  'Cousin,' I said, 'I am sorry to find thee lying in this condition.'

  'Ay,' he replied, in a voice weak and low, not like his oldblustering tones. 'Curse me and upbraid me, if thou wilt. How artthou come hither? Is it the ghost of Humphrey? Art thou dead like mygrandfather? Are we on the Plantations of Barbadoes?'

  'Indeed, I am no ghost, Benjamin. As for curses, I have none; and asfor reproaches, I leave them to thy conscience.'

  'Humphrey, I am sore afflicted. I am now so low that I cannot evensit upright in my bed. But thou art a doctor--thou wilt bring meback to health. I am already better only for seeing thee here.'

  I declare that as yet I had no thought, no thought at all, of whatI was to do. I was but a physician in presence of a sick man, andtherefore bound to help him if I could.

  I asked him first certain questions, as physicians use, concerninghis disorder and its symptoms. I learned that, after attending atthe Court, he was attacked by fits of shivering and of great heat,being hot and cold alternately, and that in order to expel the feverhe had sat drinking the whole evening--a most dangerous thing to do.Next, that in the morning he had been unable to rise from his bed,and, being thirsty, had drunk more wine--a thing enough of itselfto kill a man in such a fever. Then he lost his head, and couldtell me no more what had happened until he saw me standing by hisbedside. In short, he had been in delirium, and was now in a lucidinterval, out of which he would presently fall a-wandering again,and, perhaps, raving, and so another lucid interval, after which hewould die, unless something could be done for him.

  I liked not his appearance nor the account which he gave me, nor didI like his pulse, nor the strange look in his eyes--death doth oftenshow his coming by such a prophetic terror of the eyes.

  'Humphrey,' he said pitifully. 'It was no fault of mine that thouwast sent to the Plantations.
'

  'That I know full well, Cousin,' I answered him. 'Be easy on thatscore.'

  'And as for Alice,' he went on. 'All is fair in love.'

  I made no reply, because at this point a great temptation assailedmy soul.

  You have heard how I learned many secrets of the women while I wasabroad. Now, while we were in Providence Island I found a womanof the breed they call half caste--that is, half Indian and halfPortuguese--living in what she called wedlock with an Englishsailor, who did impart to me a great secret of her own people. Iobtained from her not only the knowledge of a most potent drug(known already to the Jesuits), but also a goodly quantity of thedrug itself. This, with certain other discoveries and observationsof my own, I was about to communicate to the College in Warwick Lane.

  As for this drug, I verily believe it is the most potent medicineever yet discovered. It is now some years since it was first broughtover to Europe by the Jesuits, and is therefore called _PulvisJesuiticus_, and sometimes Peruvian Bark. When administered at sucha stage of the fever as had now been reached by my unhappy cousin,it seldom fails to vivify the spirits, and so to act upon the nervesas to restore the sinking, and to call back to life a man almostmoribund.

  Remembering this, I lugged the packet out of my pocket and laid iton the table.

  'Be of good cheer, Cousin,' I said; 'I have a drug which is strongenough, with the help of God, to make a dying man sit up again.Courage, then!'

  * * * * *

  When I had said these words my temptation fell upon me. It came inthe guise of a voice which whispered in my ear.

  'Should this man die,' it said, 'there will be freedom for Alice.She can then marry the man she loves. She will be restored tohappiness. While he lives, she must still continue in misery, beingcut off from love. Let him die therefore.'

  * * * * *

  'Humphrey,' said Ben; 'in this matter of Alice: if she will cometo me, I will make her happy. But I know not where she is hidden.Things go ill with me since that unlucky day. I would to God Ihad not done it! Nothing hath gone well since; and I drink dailyto hide her face. Yet at night she haunts me--with her father,who threatens, and her mother, who weeps, and my grandfather, whoreproaches. Humphrey--tell me--what is it, man? What mean thy looks?'

  For while he spoke that other voice was in my ears also.

  'Should he die, Alice will be happy again. Should he live, she willcontinue in misery.' At these words (which were but my own thoughts,yet involuntary), I felt so great a pity, such an overwhelming lovefor Alice, that my spirit was wholly carried away. To restore herfreedom! Oh! what price was too great for such a gift? Nay--I wasseized with the thought that to give her so great a thing, even myown destruction would be a light price to pay. Never, until thatmoment, had I known how fondly and truly I loved her. Why, if itwere to be done over again--but this matters not. I have to make myconfession.

  'Humphrey, speak!' I suppose that my trouble showed itself in myface.

  'Thou art married to Alice,' I said slowly. 'That cannot be denied.So long as thou livest, Benjamin, so long will she be robbed ofeverything that she desires, so long will she be unhappy. Now, ifthou shouldst die'----

  'Die? I cannot die; I must live.' He tried to raise himself, but hewas too weak. 'Cousin, save my life.'

  'If thou shouldst die, Benjamin,' I went on, regardless of hiswords, 'she will be set free. It is only by thy death that she canbe set free. Say then to thyself: "I have done this poor womanso great an injury that nothing but my death can atone for it.Willingly, therefore, will I lay down my life, hoping thus to atonefor this abominable wickedness."'

  'Humphrey, do not mock me. Give me--give me--give me speedily thedrug of which you spoke. I die--I die!--Oh!--give me of thy drug.'

  Then I took the packet containing the _Pulvis Jesuiticus_ and threwit upon the fire, where in a moment it was a little heap of ashes.

  'Now, Benjamin,' I said, 'I cannot help thee. Thou must surely die.'

  He shrieked, he wept, he implored me to do something--something tokeep him alive. He began to curse and to swear.

  'No one can now save thee, Benjamin,' I told him. 'Not all theCollege of Physicians; not all the medicines in England. Thou mustdie. Listen and heed: in a short time, unless thy present weaknesscauseth thee to expire, there will fall upon thee another fit offever and delirium, after which another interval of reason: perhapsanother--but yet thou must surely die. Prepare thy soul, therefore.Is there any message for Alice that thou wouldst send to her, beingnow at the point of death?'

  His only answer was to curse and weep alternately.

  Then I knelt beside his bed, and prayed aloud for him. Butincessantly he cried for help, wearing himself out with prayers andcurses.

  'Benjamin,' I said, when I had thus prayed a while, butineffectually, 'I shall take to Alice, instead of these curses,which avail nothing, a prayer for pardon, in order to touch herheart and cause her to think of thee with forgiveness, as of onewho repented at the end. This I shall do for her sake. I shall alsotell thy father that thy death was repentant, and shall take to himalso a prayer for forgiveness as from thee. This will lighten hissorrow, and cause him to remember thee with the greater love. Andto Robin, too, so that he may cease to call thee villain, I willcarry, not these ravings, but a humble prayer (as from thyself) forforgiveness.'

  * * * * *

  This is my confession: _I, who might have saved my cousin, sufferedhim to die_.

  * * * * *

  The sick man, when he found that prayers or curses would not avail,fell to moaning, rolling his head from side to side. When he wasthus quiet I prayed again for him, exhorting him to lift up his soulto his Judge, and assuring him of our full forgiveness. But, indeed,I know not if he heard or understood. It was then about four of theclock, and growing dark. I lit a candle, and examined him again. Ithink that he was now unconscious. He seemed as if he slept. I satdown and watched.

  I think that at midnight, or thereabouts, I must have fallen asleep.

  When I awoke the candle was out, and the fire was out. The room wasin perfect darkness. I laid my hand upon my cousin's forehead. Hewas cold and dead.

  Then I heard the voice of the watchman in the street: 'Past twoo'clock, and a frosty morning!'

  The voice I had heard before whispered again in my ear.

  'Alice is free--Alice is free! Thou--thou--thou alone hast set herfree! Thou hast killed her husband!'

  I threw myself upon my knees and spent the rest of that long nightin seeking for repentance; but then, as now, the lamentation of asinner is also mingled with the joy of thinking that Alice was freeat last, and by none other hand than mine.

  This I repeat is my confession: I might have saved my cousin, and Isuffered him to die. Wherefore I have left the profession in whichit was my ambition to distinguish myself, and am no longer anythingbut a poor and obscure person, living on the charity of my friendsin a remote village.

  * * * * *

  Two days afterwards I was sitting at the table, looking through thedead man's papers, when I heard a footstep on the stair.

  It was Barnaby, who broke noisily into the room.

  'Where is Benjamin?' he cried. 'Where is that villain?'

  'What do you want with him?'

  'I want to kill him. I am come to kill him.'

  'Look upon the bed, Barnaby.' I laid back the sheet and showed himthe pale face of the dead man.

  'The hand of the Lord--or that of another--hath already killed him.Art thou now content?'