A KNIGHT OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, Edward Payson Roe [top young adult novels TXT] 📗
- Author: Edward Payson Roe
Book online «A KNIGHT OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, Edward Payson Roe [top young adult novels TXT] 📗». Author Edward Payson Roe
If Haldane Had Been Left Alone On An Ice-Floe In the Arctic Ocean He
Could Scarcely Have Felt Worse Than He Did During The Remainder Of The
Day After Mrs. Arnot'S Departure. A Dreary And Increasing Sense Of
Isolation Oppressed him. The Words Of His Visitor, "What Have You To Do
With The World?" And "If You Were Dead It Would Forget You In a Few
Days," Repeated themselves Over And Over Again. His Vindictive Feeling
Against Society Died out In the Consciousness Of His Weakness And
Insignificance. What Is The Use Of One'S Smiting a Mountain With His
Fist? Only The Puny Hand Feels The Blow. The World Became, Under Mrs.
Arnot'S Words, Too Large And Vague A Generality Even To Be Hated.
In Order To Be A Misanthrope One Must Also Be An Egotist, Dwarfing The
Objects Of His Spite, And Exaggerating The Small Atom That Has Arrayed
Itself Against The Universe. It Is A Species Of Insanity, Wherein A Mind
Has Lost Perception Of The Correct Relationship Between Different
Existences. The Poor Hypochondriac Who Imagined himself A Mountain Was A
Living Satire On Many Of His Fellow-Creatures, Who Differ Only In being
Able To Keep Similar Delusions To Themselves.
Mrs. Arnot'S Plain, Honest, Yet Kindly Words Had Thrown Down The Walls
Of Prejudice, And Haldane'S Mind Lay Open To The Truth. As Has Been
Said, His First Impression Was A Strange And Miserable Sense Of
Loneliness. He Saw What A Slender Hold He Had Upon The Rest Of Humanity.
The Majority Knew Nothing Of Him, While, With Few Exceptions, Those Who
Were Aware Of His Existence Despised and Detested him, And Would Breathe
More Freely If Assured of His Death. He Instinctively Felt That The
Natural Affections Of His Mother And Sisters Were Borne Down And Almost
Overwhelmed by His Course And Character. If They Had Any Visitors In the
Seclusion To Which His Disgrace Had Driven Them, His Name Would Be
Avoided with Morbid Sensitiveness, And Yet All Would Be As Painfully
Conscious Of Him As If He Were A Corpse In the Room, Which By Some
Monstrous Necessity Could Not Be Buried. While They Might Shed natural
Tears, He Was Not Sure But That Deep In their Hearts Would Come A Sense
Of Relief Should They Hear That He Was Dead, And So Could Not Deepen The
Stain He Had Already Given To A Name Once So Respectable. He Knew That
His Indifference And Overbearing Manner Toward His Sisters Had Alienated
Them From Him; While In respect To Mrs. Haldane, Her Aristocratic
Conventionality, The Most Decided trait Of Her Character, Would Always
Be In sharp Contest With Her Strong Mother-Love, And Thus He Would Ever
Be Only A Source Of Disquiet And Wretchedness Whether Present Or Absent.
In View Of The Discordant Elements And Relations Now Existing, There Was
Not A Place On Earth Less Attractive Than His Own Home.
It May At First Seem A Contradiction To Say That The Thought Of Mrs.
Arnot Gave Him A Drearier Sense Of Isolation Than The Memory Of All
Else. In her Goodness She Seemed to Belong To A Totally Different World
From Himself And People In general. He Had Nothing In common With Her.
She Seemed to Come To Him Almost Literally As An Angel Of Mercy, And
From An Infinite Distance, And Her Visits Must, Of Necessity, Be Like
Those Of The Angels, Few And Far Between, And, In view Of His Character,
Must Soon Cease. He Shrank From Her Purity And Nobility Even While Drawn
Toward Her By Her Sympathy. He Instinctively Felt That In all Her Deep
Commiseration Of Him She Could Not For A Moment Tolerate The Debasing
Evil Of His Nature, And That This Evil, Retained, Would Speedily And
Inevitably Separate Them Forever. Could He Be Rid Of It? He Did Not
Know. He Could Not Then See How. In his Weakness And Despondency It
Seemed inwrought With Every Fibre Of His Being, And An Essential Part Of
Himself. As For Laura, She Was Like A Bright Star That Had Set, And Was
No Longer Above His Dim Horizon.
As He Felt Himself Thus Losing His Hold On The Companionship And
Remembrance Of Others, He Was Thrown Back Upon Himself, And This Led him
To Feel With A Sort Of Dreary Foreboding That It Would Be A Horrible
Thing Thus To Be Chained forever To A Self Toward Which The Higher
Faculties Of His Soul Must Ever Cherish Only Hatred and Loathing. Even
Now He Hated himself--Nay, More, He Was Enraged with Himself--In View Of
The Folly Of Which He Had Been Capable. What Could Be Worse Than The
Endless Companionship Of The Base Nature Which Had Already Dragged him
Down So Low?
As The Hours Passed, The Weight Upon His Heart Grew Heavier, And The
Chill Of Dread More Unendurable. He Saw His Character As Another Might
See It. He Saw A Nature To Which, From Infancy, A Wrong Bias Had Been
Given, Made Selfish By Indulgence, Imperious And Strong Only In carrying
Out Impulses And In gratifying Base Passions, But Weak As Water In
Resisting Evil And Thwarting Its Vile Inclinations. The Pride And Hope
That Had Sustained him In what He Regarded as The Great Effort Of His
Life Were Gone, And He Felt Neither Strength Nor Courage To Attempt
Anything Further. He Saw Himself Helpless And Prostrate Before His Fate,
And Yet That Fate Was So Terrible That He Shrank From It With Increasing
Dread.
What Could He Do? Was It Possible To Do Anything? Had He Not Lost His
Footing? If A Man Is Caught In the Rapids, Up To A Certain Point His
Struggle Against The Tide Is Full Of Hope, But Beyond That Point No
Effort Can Avail. Had He Not Been Swept So Far Down Toward The Final
Plunge That Grim Despair Were Better Than Frantic But Vain Effort?
And Yet He Felt That He Could Not Give Himself Up To The Absolute
Mastery Of Evil Without One More Struggle. Was There Any Chance? Was He
Capable Of Making The Needful Effort?
Thus Hopes And Fears, Bitter Memories And Passionate Regrets, Swept To
And Fro Through His Soul Like Stormy Gusts. A Painful Experience And
Mrs. Arnot'S Words Were Teaching The Giddy, Thoughtless Young Fellow
What Life Meant, And Were Forcing Upon His Attention The Inevitable
Questions Connected with It Which Must Be Solved sooner Or Later, And
Which Usually Grow More Difficult As The Consideration Of Them Is
Delayed, And They Become Complicated. As His Cell Grew Dusky With Its
Early Twilight, As He Thought Of Another Long Night Whose Darkness Would
Be Light Compared with The Shadow Brooding On His Prospects, His Courage
And Endurance Gave Way.
With Something Of The Feeling Of A Terror-Stricken Child He Called the
Under-Sheriff, And Asked for Writing Materials. With A Pencil He Wrote
Hastily:
"Mrs. Arnot--I Entreat You To Visit Me Once More To-Day. Your Words Have
Left Me In torture. I Cannot Face The Consequences And Yet See No Way Of
Escape. It Would Be Very Cruel To Leave Me To My Despairing Thoughts For
Another Night, And You Are Not Cruel."
In Despatching The Missive He Said, "I Can Promise That If This Note Is
Delivered to Mrs. Arnot At Once, The Bearer Shall Be Well Paid."
Moments Seemed hours While He Waited for An Answer. Suppose The Letter
Was Not Delivered--Suppose Mrs. Arnot Was Absent. A Hundred miserable
Conjectures Flitted through His Mind; But His Confidence In his Friend
Was Such That Even His Morbid Fear Did Not Suggest That She Would Not
Come.
The Lady Was At The Dinner-Table When The Note Was Handed to Her, And
After Reading It She Rose Hastily And Excused herself.
"Where Are You Going?" Asked her Husband Sharply.
"A Person In trouble Has Sent For Me."
"Well, Unless The _Person_ Is In the Midst Of A Surgical Operation,
He, She, Or It, Whichever This Person May Be, Can Wait Till You Finish
Your Dinner."
"I Am Going To Visit Egbert Haldane," Said Mrs. Arnot Quietly. "Jane,
Please Tell Michael To Come Round With The Carriage Immediately."
"You Visit The City Prison At This Hour! Now I Protest. The Young Rake
Probably Has The Delirium Tremens. Send Our Physician Rather, If Some
One Must Go, Though Leaving Him To The Jailer And A Strait-Jacket Would
Be Better Still."
"Please Excuse Me," Answered his Wife, With Her Hand On The Door-Knob;
"You Forget My Relations To Mrs. Haldane; Her Son Has Sent For Me."
"'Her Relations To Mrs. Haldane!' As If She Were Not Always At The Beck
And Call Of Every Beggar And Criminal In town! I Do Wish I Had A Wife
Who Was Too Much Of A Lady To Have Anything To Do With This Low Scum."
A Few Moments Later Mr. Arnot Broke Out Anew With Muttered complaint And
Invective, As He Heard The Carriage Driven Rapidly Away.
As By The Flickering Light Of A Dip Candle Mrs. Arnot Saw Haldane'S
Pale, Haggard Face, She Did Not Regret That She Had Come At Once, For A
Glance Gave To Her The Evidence Of A Human Soul In its Extremity.
In Facing These Deep Questions Of Life, Some Regard Themselves As Brave
Or Philosophical. Perhaps It Were Nearer The Truth To Say They Are
Stolid, And Are Staring at That Which They Do Not Understand And Cannot
Yet Realize. Where In history Do We Read--Who From A Ripe Experience Can
Give--An Instance Of A Happy Life Developing Under The Deepening Shadow
Of Evil? Suppose One Has Seen High Types Of Character And Happiness, And
Was Capable Of Appreciating Them, But Finds That He Has Cherished a
Sottish, Beastly Nature So Long That It Has Become His Master, Promising
To Hold Him In thraldom Ever Afterward;--Can There Be A More Wretched
Form Of Captivity? The Ogre Of A Debased nature Drags The Soul Away From
Light And Happiness--From All Who Are Good And Pure--To The Hideous
Solitude Of Self And Memory.
There Are Those Who Will Be Incredulous And Even Resentful In view Of
This Picture, But It Will Not Be The First Time That Facts Have Been
Quarrelled with. It Is _True_ That Many Are Writhing and Groaning
In This Cruel Bondage, Mastered and Held Captive By Some Debasing
Appetite Or Passion, Perhaps By Many. Sometimes, With A Bitter,
Despairing Sorrow, Of Which Superficial Observers Of Life Can Have No
Idea, They Speak Of These Horrid Chains; Sometimes They Tug At Them
Almost Frantically. A Few Escape, But More Are Dragged down And
Away--Away From Honorable Companionships And Friendships; Away From
Places Of Trust, From Walks Of Usefulness And Safety; Away From Parents,
From Wife And Children, Until The Awful Isolation Is Complete, And The
Guilty Soul Finds Itself Alone With The Sin That Mastered it, Conscious
That God Only Will Ever See And Remember. Human Friends Will
Forget--They Must Forget In order To Obtain Relief From An Object That
Has Become Morally Too Unsightly To Be Looked upon; And In mercy They
Are So Created that They Can Forget, Though It May Be Long Before It Is
Possible.
There Are People Who Scout This Awful Mystery Of Evil. They Have
Beautiful Little Theories Of Their Own, Which They Have Spun In the
Seclusion Of Their Studies. They Keep Carefully Within Their Shady,
Flower-Bordered walks, And Ignore The Existence Of The World'S Dusty
Highways, In which So Many Are Fainting and Being Trampled upon. What
They Do Not See Does Not Exist. What They Do Not Believe Is Not True.
They Cannot Condemn Too Severely The Lack Of Artistic Taste And Liberal
Culture Which Leads Any One To Regard Sin As Other Than A Theologian'S
Phrase Or A Piquant Element In human Life, Which Otherwise Would Be
Rather Dull And Flavorless.
Mrs. Arnot Was Not A Theorist, Nor Was She The Elegant Lady, Wholly
Given To The Aesthetic Culture That Her Husband Desired; She Was A
Large-Hearted woman, And She Understood Human Life And Its Emergencies
Sufficiently Well To Tremble With Apprehension When She Saw The Face Of
Egbert Haldane, For She Felt That A Deathless Soul In its Crisis--Its
Deepest Spiritual Need--Was Looking To Her Solely For Help.
Comments (0)