CHAPTER I
Whether the utilitarian or the intuitive theory of the moral sense be upheld,it is beyond question that there are a few subtle-souled persons with whom the absolute gratuitousness of an act of reparation is an inducement to perform it;while exhortation as to its necessity would breed excuses for leaving it undone.The case of Mr.Millborne and Mrs.Frankland particularly illustrated this,and perhaps something more.
There were few figures better known to the local crossing-sweeper than Mr.Millborne's,in his daily comings and goings along a familiar and quiet London street,where he lived inside the door marked eleven,though not as householder.In age he was fifty at least,and his habits were as regular as those of a person can be who has no occupation but the study of how to keep himself employed.He turned almost always to the right on getting to the end of his street,then he went onward down Bond Street to his club,whence he returned by precisely the same course about six o'clock,on foot;or,if he went to dine,later on in a cab.He was known to be a man of some means,though apparently not wealthy.Being a bachelor he seemed to prefer his present mode of living as a lodger in Mrs.
Towney's best rooms,with the use of furniture which he had bought ten times over in rent during his tenancy,to having a house of his own.
None among his acquaintance tried to know him well,for his manner and moods did not excite curiosity or deep friendship.He was not a man who seemed to have anything on his mind,anything to conceal,anything to impart.From his casual remarks it was generally understood that he was country-born,a native of some place in Wessex;that he had come to London as a young man in a banking-house,and had risen to a post of responsibility;when,by the death of his father,who had been fortunate in his investments,the son succeeded to an income which led him to retire from a business life somewhat early.
One evening,when he had been unwell for several days,Doctor Bindon came in,after dinner,from the adjoining medical quarter,and smoked with him over the fire.The patient's ailment was not such as to require much thought,and they talked together on indifferent subjects.
'I am a lonely man,Bindon--a lonely man,'Millborne took occasion to say,shaking his head gloomily.'You don't know such loneliness as mine ...And the older I get the more I am dissatisfied with myself.And to-day I have been,through an accident,more than usually haunted by what,above all other events of my life,causes that dissatisfaction--the recollection of an unfulfilled promise made twenty years ago.In ordinary affairs I have always been considered a man of my word and perhaps it is on that account that a particular vow I once made,and did not keep,comes back to me with a magnitude out of all proportion (I daresay)to its real gravity,especially at this time of day.You know the discomfort caused at night by the half-sleeping sense that a door or window has been left unfastened,or in the day by the remembrance of unanswered letters.So does that promise haunt me from time to time,and has done to-day particularly.'
There was a pause,and they smoked on.Millborne's eyes,though fixed on the fire,were really regarding attentively a town in the West of England.
'Yes,'he continued,'I have never quite forgotten it,though during the busy years of my life it was shelved and buried under the pressure of my pursuits.And,as I say,to-day in particular,an incident in the law-report of a somewhat similar kind has brought it back again vividly.However,what it was I can tell you in a few words,though no doubt you,as a man of the world,will smile at the thinness of my skin when you hear it ...I came up to town at one-and-twenty,from Toneborough,in Outer Wessex,where I was born,and where,before I left,I had won the heart of a young woman of my own age.I promised her marriage,took advantage of my promise,and--am a bachelor.'
'The old story.'
The other nodded.
'I left the place,and thought at the time I had done a very clever thing in getting so easily out of an entanglement.But I have lived long enough for that promise to return to bother me--to be honest,not altogether as a pricking of the conscience,but as a dissatisfaction with myself as a specimen of the heap of flesh called humanity.If I were to ask you to lend me fifty pounds,which Iwould repay you next midsummer,and I did not repay you,I should consider myself a shabby sort of fellow,especially if you wanted the money badly.Yet I promised that girl just as distinctly;and then coolly broke my word,as if doing so were rather smart conduct than a mean action,for which the poor victim herself,encumbered with a child,and not I,had really to pay the penalty,in spite of certain pecuniary aid that was given.There,that's the retrospective trouble that I am always unearthing;and you may hardly believe that though so many years have elapsed,and it is all gone by and done with,and she must be getting on for an old woman now,as I am for an old man,it really often destroys my sense of self-respect still.'
'O,I can understand it.All depends upon the temperament.
Thousands of men would have forgotten all about it;so would you,perhaps,if you had married and had a family.Did she ever marry?'
'I don't think so.O no--she never did.She left Toneborough,and later on appeared under another name at Exonbury,in the next county,where she was not known.It is very seldom that I go down into that part of the country,but in passing through Exonbury,on one occasion,I learnt that she was quite a settled resident there,as a teacher of music,or something of the kind.That much I casually heard when I was there two or three years ago.But I have never set eyes on her since our original acquaintance,and should not know her if I met her.'
'Did the child live?'asked the doctor.
