I
Michael Trevanion misunderstood Paul: that was the trouble. Michael, so
Mark Rutherford tells us, was a Puritan of the Puritans, silent, stern,
unbending. Between his wife and himself no sympathy existed. They had
two children--a boy and a girl. The girl was in every way her mother's
child: the boy was the image of his father. Michael made a companion of
his son; took him into his own workshop; and promised himself that, come
what might, Robert should grow up to walk in his father's footsteps. All
went well until Robert Trevanion met Susan Shipton. Susan was one of the
beauties of that Cornish village. She had--what were not common in
Cornwall--light flaxen hair, blue eyes, and a rosy face, somewhat
inclined to be plump. The Shiptons lay completely outside Michael's
circle. They were mere formalists in religion, fond of pleasure; and
Susan especially was much given to gaiety. She went to picnics and
dances; rowed herself about the bay with her friends; and sauntered
round the town with her father and mother on Sunday afternoons. She was
fond of bathing, too, and was a good swimmer. Michael hardly knew how to
put his objection in words, but he nevertheless had a horror of women
who could swim. It seemed to him an ungodly accomplishment. He did not
believe for a moment that Paul would have sanctioned it. That settled it
for Michael. For Michael had unbounded faith in the judgment of Paul;
and the tragedy of his life lay in the fact that, on one important
occasion, he misunderstood his oracle.
One summer's morning, Robert saved Susan from drowning. She had
forgotten the swirl of water caused by the rush of the river into the
bay, and had swum into the danger zone. In three minutes Robert was at
her side, had gripped her by the bathing dress at the back of her neck,
and had brought her into safer water. From that moment the two were
often together; and, one afternoon, Michael came suddenly upon them and
guessed their secret. It nearly broke his heart. In Robert's attachment
to Susan he saw--or thought he saw--the end of all his hopes. 'He
remembered what his own married life had been; he always trusted that
Robert would have a wife who would be a help to him, and he felt sure
that this girl Shipton, with her pretty face and blue eyes, had no
brains. To think that his boy should repeat the same inexplicable
blunder, that he would never hear from his wife's lips one serious word!
What would she be if trouble came upon him? She was not a child of God.
He did not know that she ever sought the Lord. She went to church once a
day and read her prayers, and that was all. She was not one of the
chosen; she might corrupt Robert and he might fall away and so commit
the sin against the Holy Ghost. He went to his room, and, shutting the
door, wept bitter tears. 'O my son, Absalom,' he cried, 'my son, my son
Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!'
It was in these desperate straits that poor Michael consulted Paul--and
misunderstood him. It was a Sunday night. Michael picked up the Bible
and turned to the Epistle to the Romans. It was his favorite epistle. He
read the ninth chapter. The third verse startled him. '_I could wish
that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen
according to the flesh._' Nobody need wonder that the words strangely
affected him. In his _Table Talk_, Coleridge says that when he read this
passage to a friend of his, a Jew at Ramsgate, the old man burst into
tears. 'Any Jew of sensibility,' the poet adds, 'must be deeply
impressed by it.' Michael Trevanion read the throbbing words again. '_I
could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my
kinsmen according to the flesh._'
He laid down the Book. 'What did Paul mean? What _could_ he mean save
that he was willing to be damned to save those whom he loved? And why
not? Why should not a man be willing to be damned for others? Damnation!
It is awful, horrible. Millions of years, with no relief, with no light
from the Most High, and in subjection to His enemy! "And yet, if it is
to save--if it is to save Robert," thought Michael, "God give me
strength--I could endure it. Did not the Son Himself venture to risk the
wrath of the Father that He might redeem man? What am I? What is my poor
self?" And Michael determined that night that neither his life in this
world nor in the next, if he could rescue his child, should be of any
account.'
So far Michael and Paul were of one mind. Now for the divergence! Now
for the misunderstanding! Michael questioned himself and his oracle
further. 'What could Paul mean exactly? God could not curse him _if he
did no wrong_. He could only mean that he was willing _to sin_, and be
punished, provided Israel might live. It was lawful then to _tell a lie
or perpetrate any evil deed_ in order to protect his child.' Michael
therefore took his resolution. He hinted to Robert that Susan's history
was besmirched with shame. He left on his desk--where he knew Robert
would see it--a fragment of an old letter referring to the downfall of
another girl named Susan. Michael knew that he was telling and acting a
lie, a terrible and unpardonable lie. He firmly believed that, in
telling that dreadful lie, he was damning his soul to all eternity. But
in damning his own soul--so he thought--he was saving his son's. And
that, after all, was the lesson that Paul had taught him.
The rest of the story does not immediately concern us. Robert, on seeing
the documentary proof of Susan's shame, ran away from home. Michael,
overwhelmed with wretchedness, attempted to drown himself in the swirl
at the mouth of the river. Of what value was life to him, now that his
soul was everlastingly lost? He awoke to find himself on the bank, with
Susan bending over him and kissing him. He soon discovered that there
was more sense in Susan's head, and more grace in her heart, than he had
for one moment imagined. He set out after his son; found him; and died
in making his great and humiliating confession. He had meant well, but
he had misunderstood. He had misunderstood Paul.