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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

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

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

'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

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 I
would 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.

'For several years, certainly,' replied his friend. 'I cannot say if
she is living now. It was a little girl. She might be married by
this time as far as years go.'

'And the mother--was she a decent, worthy young woman?'

'O yes; a sensible, quiet girl, neither attractive nor unattractive
to the ordinary observer; simply commonplace. Her position at the
time of our acquaintance was not so good as mine. My father was a
solicitor, as I think I have told you. She was a young girl in a
music-shop; and it was represented to me that it would be beneath my
position to marry her. Hence the result.'

'Well, all I can say is that after twenty years it is probably too
late to think of mending such a matter. It has doubtless by this
time mended itself. You had better dismiss it from your mind as an
evil past your control. Of course, if mother and daughter are alive,
or either, you might settle something upon them, if you were
inclined, and had it to spare.'

'Well, I haven't much to spare; and I have relations in narrow
circumstances--perhaps narrower than theirs. But that is not the
point. Were I ever so rich I feel I could not rectify the past by
money. I did not promise to enrich her. On the contrary, I told her
it would probably be dire poverty for both of us. But I did promise
to make her my wife.'

'Then find her and do it,' said the doctor jocularly as he rose to

'Ah, Bindon. That, of course, is the obvious jest. But I haven't
the slightest desire for marriage; I am quite content to live as I
have lived. I am a bachelor by nature, and instinct, and habit, and
everything. Besides, though I respect her still (for she was not an
atom to blame), I haven't any shadow of love for her. In my mind she
exists as one of those women you think well of, but find
uninteresting. It would be purely with the idea of putting wrong
right that I should hunt her up, and propose to do it off-hand.'

'You don't think of it seriously?' said his surprised friend.

'I sometimes think that I would, if it were practicable; simply, as I
say, to recover my sense of being a man of honour.'

'I wish you luck in the enterprise,' said Doctor Bindon. 'You'll
soon be out of that chair, and then you can put your impulse to the
test. But--after twenty years of silence--I should say, don't!'

Life's Little Ironies by Thomas Hardy
19th century fiction

Short stories
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