Was It Right to Forgive? A Domestic Romance

‘When through the black dome of the firmament,
Sudden there went,
Like horror and astonishment,
A fierce vindictive scribble of red
Quick flame across; as if one said
(The angry Scribe of Judgment), There,
Burn it!’

And who can read the pleading of the youth who has chosen the world, and not recognize the amiable young man of to-day, unable to put the cup of pleasure utterly away, but resolving to let

‘the dear remnant pass
One day – some drops of earthly good
Untasted.’

Do you want to know the end of this choice? Browning has told us in words no young man should be ignorant of.”

“Go on, Doctor,” said the Professor. “It will do us all good.”

“God reserves many great sinners for the most awful of all punishments – impunity. We can despise the other life, until we are refused it. This youth got the world he desired. A Voice tells him it is —

‘Flung thee freely as one rose
Out of a summer’s opulence,
Over the Eden barrier whence
Thou art excluded. Knock in vain!’

He is made welcome to so rate earth, and never to know

‘What royalties in store
Lay one step past the entrance door.’

So he tries the world, tries all its ways, its intellect, and art; and at last, when everything else fails, he tries love. Surely love will not offend; and he looks upward to The Form at his side for approval. But its face is as the face of the headsman, who shoulders the axe to make an end. Love? Asking for love, when He so loved the world as to give His only beloved Son to die for love. Then lost and bewildered, and weary to death, the youth cowers deprecatingly, and prays that at least he may not know all is lost; that he may go on, and on, still hoping ‘one eve to reach the better land.’” And the minister’s eyes were full of tears, and his voice was full of despair, and there was a moment’s intense silence. Harry broke it. “Surely, sir,” he said, “the poet did not leave the youth in such hopeless distress?”

“He knew his God better,” was the answer. “I will tell you in the youth’s own words what happened:

‘Then did The Form expand, expand —
I knew Him thro’ the dread disguise,
As the whole God within his eyes
Embraced me!’”

“If you are not tired of Browning,” said the Professor, in a singularly soft voice for him, “I will give you from him a picture of the world in the highest mood it has ever known, or perhaps ever will know – under the Cross. It is only the ‘Epitaph in the Catacombs’:

‘I was born sickly, poor, and mean,
A slave; no misery could screen
The holders of the pearl of price
From Cæsar’s envy; therefore twice
I fought with beasts, and three times saw
My children suffer by his law;
At last my own release was earned;
I was some time in being burned,
But at the close a hand came through
The fire above my head; and drew
My soul to Christ; whom now I see.
Sergius, a brother, writes for me,
This testimony on the wall:
For me, I have forgot it all.’

Could any picture be more perfect? Christ has made of the poor sick slave a hero; and he speaks dispassionately from the other side. At last his release was earned. He was some time in being burned. Sergius writes – it is not he – he has forgot it all. These words light up an infinite picture, and surely the poet, who with one light stroke can smite such a statute from the rock, is a Master crowned, and worthy of our love.”

Every face was illuminated, every soul expanded, and the Professor, burning with his own enthusiasm, laid down the book. Then Miss Alida, smiling, but yet with tears in her large gray eyes, turned to a pretty young woman who had a roll of music in her lap. “Mrs. Dunreath,” she said, “we cannot bear any more of Mr. Browning’s strong wine; give us one of your songs of Old Ireland – some that you found in Munster, among the good lay monks and brothers. And the lady lifted her mandolin, and touched a few strings to her strange musical recitative:

“A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer;
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear.
There is honey in the trees, where her misty vales expand;
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs in the yellow sand
On the fair hills of holy Ireland!

“Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;
The cresses on the water, and the sorrels are at hand;
And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland:
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song in the forest grand.
On the fair hills of holy Ireland!”

The song made a charming let-down from the loftier tension; and some one said that it was just the sweet lament for the good time past, suitable for a race which like the Irish “had seen better days.” “But,” said Miss Alida, “you would never find an old Dutch or Norse song so destitute of hope or self-reliance. Their spirit is one that does not look back to the dead and gone; or even forward for some expected Helper. They sing the present, and the best possible present. That is the noblest kind of song, and there will be hope for Ireland when she sings no longer about the having been, but determines to be.”

However, in spite of all diversions, Browning had the evening; for no one could escape from his influence. And all the way home Harry spoke of Miss Alida’s minister, and of the poem he had quoted from. He was longing to say, “How strangely the experience of the youth in the poem fitted into Hannah Young’s fear that Christ would go away and not forgive her, until the moment of pardon revealed Him through the 266 dread disguise a God of mercy and forgiveness!” He wished also to speak for himself, but it was very difficult to do. In the first place, Adriana was tremblingly afraid of explanations. She passed from one person to another, and one subject to another with so much haste and interest that it was finally clear to Harry she did not wish him to allude to the great event of the day.

But his heart was full of love and sorrow, and as he walked by her side from the carriage to the drawing-room he came to a decision. Adriana stood a moment before the fire, and there Harry unclasped her cloak, drew her head towards him, and kissed her fondly.

“Yanna!” he whispered, “Yanna, truest and best of wives! I love you, and I love only you! I have wandered often, but never have I been happy away from you. Forgive me once more. The things I have heard to-day I shall never forget. Never will I be less worthy of your love than I am at this hour; never again!”

And she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. No earthly words were loving enough and happy enough, but something exquisite and certain passed from eye to eye, and from heart to heart – some assurance in that language of love whose sweet symbols happiness uses so well. And Adriana knew that her true affection and noble patience had conquered; and that the slow, calm years would flow on henceforth in glad content, bringing them in their season all things good.

CHAPTER XI

The next morning Adriana called on her mother-in-law. In her wedding Bible, Peter had written the words of the pious Raguel – “Honor thy father and thy mother-in-law, which are now thy parents; that I may hear a good report of thee” – and she had conscientiously tried to fulfil this domestic law. But Harry’s marriage had never been quite forgiven by his parents, and in some way both of them had convinced themselves that Harry was not to blame for it. Adriana had cast some spell over him – or won some advantage – or Miss Alida, to further her own plans, had used some underhand influence which they felt it as hard to understand as to forgive. But Mrs. Filmer was much too polite and conventional to permit the public to share her dissatisfaction. However cold and formal she was to Adriana, she talked of her daughter-in-law to her acquaintances as “a most suitable person for her son’s wife.”

“The match is the realization of my husband’s desire to unite the two branches of the family and consolidate its wealth,” she said to every one. And in her heart she did acknowledge not only this advantage, but also the many virtues and charms of Adriana; for it was not her reason that was disappointed; it was her maternal jealousy that was offended.

On this morning she was unusually pleasant to Adriana. She had not seen her for some months; she had brought her some handsome souvenirs, and been 268 soothed by her satisfaction and gratitude; and she was very desirous to make peace between Adriana and Rose, and so induce Adriana to give Rose the benefit of her influence and countenance in society. The visit was, therefore, so confidential and affectionate that Adriana, in a moment of unguarded emotion, resolved to tell Mrs. Filmer about the change in Harry. Naturally she thought it would delight his mother; and she considered the momentary reluctance that assailed her as a selfish feeling.

“Mother,” she said, “I have something very good to tell you about Harry.”

“What is it? Gracious knows, I ought to hear something pleasant about Harry; for Rose’s affairs are enough to break my heart.” Her tone was querulous, rather than interested, and Adriana wished she had not spoken. A sudden fear that she was violating a sacred confidence troubled her, for where there is no sympathy, spiritual confidences are violated and wronged by being shared. It was, however, too late to be silent, but she involuntarily chose the person most removed for the opening of the conversation.

“Do you remember Cora Mitchin?”

“I remember nothing about such people.”