He Knew He Was Right

friend had told him that as soon as he had altered his mind, he was bound to let the lady know of it without delay. “You must remember,” said the sagacious friend, “that you will owe her much⁠—very much.” Mr. Gibson was perplexed in his mind when he reflected how much he might possibly be made to owe her if she should decide on appealing to a jury of her countrymen for justice. But anything would be better than his home at St. Peter’s-cum-Pumpkin with Camilla sitting opposite to him as his wife. Were there not distant lands in which a clergyman, unfortunate but still energetic, might find work to do? Was there not all America?⁠—and were there not Australia, New Zealand, Natal, all open to him? Would not a missionary career among the Chinese be better for him than St. Peter’s-cum-Pumpkin with Camilla French for his wife? By the time he had reached home his mind was made up. He would write a letter to Camilla at once; and he would marry Arabella at once⁠—on any day that might be fixed⁠—on condition that Camilla would submit to her defeat without legal redress. If legal redress should be demanded, he would put in evidence the fact that her own mother had been compelled to caution the tradesmen of the city in regard to her extravagance.

He did write his letter⁠—in an agony of spirit. “I sit down, Camilla, with a sad heart and a reluctant hand,” he said,

to communicate to you a fatal truth. But truth should be made to prevail, and there is nothing in man so cowardly, so detrimental, and so unmanly as its concealment. I have looked into myself, and have inquired of myself, and have assured myself, that were I to become your husband, I should not make you happy. It would be of no use for me now to dilate on the reasons which have convinced me;⁠—but I am convinced, and I consider it my duty to inform you so at once. I have been closeted with your mother, and have made her understand that it is so.

I have not a word to say in my own justification but this⁠—that I am sure I am acting honestly in telling you the truth. I would not wish to say a word animadverting on yourself. If there must be blame in this matter, I am willing to take it all on my own shoulders. But things have been done of late, and words have been spoken, and habits have displayed themselves, which would not, I am sure, conduce to our mutual comfort in this world, or to our assistance to each other in our struggles to reach the happiness of the world to come.

I think that you will agree with me, Camilla, that when a man or a woman has fallen into such a mistake as that which I have now made, it is best that it should be acknowledged. I know well that such a change of arrangements as that which I now propose will be regarded most unfavourably. But will not anything be better than the binding of a matrimonial knot which cannot be again unloosed, and which we should both regret?

I do not know that I need add anything further. What can I add further? Only this;⁠—that I am inflexible. Having resolved to take this step⁠—and to bear the evil things that may be said of me⁠—for your happiness and for my own tranquility⁠—I shall not now relinquish my resolution. I do not ask you to forgive me. I doubt much whether I shall ever be quite able to forgive myself. The mistake which I have made is one which should not have been committed. I do not ask you to forgive me; but I do ask you to pray that I may be forgiven.

Yours, with feelings of the truest friendship,

Thomas Gibson.

The letter had been very difficult, but he was rather proud of it than otherwise when it was completed. He had felt that he was writing a letter which not improbably might become public property. It was necessary that he should be firm, that he should accuse himself a little in order that he might excuse himself much, and that he should hint at causes which might justify the rupture, though he should so veil them as not to appear to defend his own delinquency by ungenerous counter-accusation. When he had completed the letter, he thought that he had done all this rather well, and he sent the despatch off to Heavitree by the clerk of St. Peter’s Church, with something of that feeling of expressible relief which attends the final conquest over some fatal and all but insuperable misfortune. He thought that he was sure now that he would not have to marry Camilla on the 29th of the month⁠—and there would probably be a period of some hours before he would be called upon to hear or read Camilla’s reply.

Camilla was alone when she received the letter, but she rushed at once to her mother. “There,” said she; “there⁠—I knew that it was coming!” Mrs. French took the paper into her hands, and gasped, and gazed at her daughter without speaking. “You knew of it, mother.”

“Yesterday⁠—when he told me, I knew of it.”

“And Bella knows it.”

“Not a word of it.”

“She does. I am sure she does. But it is all nothing. I will not accept it. He cannot treat me so. I will drag him there;⁠—but he shall come.”

“You can’t make him, my dear.”

“I will make him. And you would help me, mamma, if you had any spirit. What⁠—a fortnight before the time, when the things are all bought! Look at the presents that have been sent! Mamma, he doesn’t know me. And he never would have done it, if it had not been for Bella⁠—never. She had better take care, or there shall be such a tragedy that nobody ever heard the like. If she thinks that she is