The only sin which we never forgive in each other is difference of
opinion.--EMERSON.
Mr. Gresley was troubled, more troubled than he had ever been since a
never-to-be-forgotten period before his ordination, when he had come in
contact with worldly minds, and had had doubts as to the justice of
eternal punishment. He was apt to speak in after years of the furnace
through which he had passed, and from which nothing short of a
conversation with a bishop had had power to save him, as a great
experience which he could not regret, because it had brought him into
sympathy with so many minds. As he often said in his favorite language
of metaphor, he "had threshed out the whole subject of agnosticism, and
could consequently meet other minds still struggling in its turbid
waves."
But now again he was deeply perturbed, and it was difficult to see in
what blessing to his fellow-creatures this particular agitation would
result. He walked with bent head for hours in the garden. He could not
attend to his sermon, though it was Friday. He entirely forgot his
Bible-class at the alms-houses in the afternoon.
Mrs. Gresley watched him from her bedroom window, where she was mending
the children's stockings. At last she laid aside her work and went out.
She might not be his mental equal. She might be unable, with her small
feminine mind, to fathom the depths and heights of that great
intelligence, but still she was his wife. Perhaps, though she did not
know it, it troubled her to see him so absorbed in his sister, for she
was sure it was of Hester and her book that he was thinking. "I am his
wife," she said to herself, as she joined him in silence, and passed her
arm through his. He needed to be reminded of her existence. Mr. Gresley
pressed it, and they took a turn in silence.
He had not a high opinion of the feminine intellect. He was wont to say
that he was tired of most women in ten minutes. But he had learned to
make an exception of his wife. What mind does not feel confidence in the
sentiments of its echo?
"I am greatly troubled about Hester," he said at last.
"It is not a new trouble," said Mrs. Gresley. "I sometimes think,
dearest, it is we who are to blame in having her to live with us. She is
worldly--I suppose she can't help it--and we are unworldly. She is
irreligious, and you are deeply religious. I wish I could say I was too,
but I lag far behind you. And though I am sure she does her best--and so
do we--her presence is a continual friction. I feel she always drags us
down."
Mr. Gresley was too much absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the
diffident plea which his wife was putting forward that Hester might
cease to live with them.
"I was not thinking of that," he said, "so much as of this novel which
she has written. It is a profane, immoral book, and will do incalculable
harm if it is published."
"I feel sure it will," said Mrs. Gresley, who had not read it.
"It is dreadfully coarse in places," continued Mr. Gresley, who had the
same opinion of George Eliot's works. "And I warned Hester most solemnly
on that point when I found she had begun another book. I told her that I
well knew that to meet the public taste it was necessary to interlard
fiction with _risqué_ things in order to make it sell, but that it was
my earnest hope she would in future resist this temptation. She only
said that if she introduced improprieties into her book in order to make
money, in her opinion she deserved to be whipped in the public streets.
She was very angry, I remember, and became as white as a sheet, and I
dropped the subject."
"She can't bear even the most loving word of advice," said Mrs. Gresley.
"She holds nothing sacred," went on Mr. Gresley, remembering an
unfortunate incident in the clergyman's career. "Her life here seems to
have had no softening effect upon her. She sneers openly at religion. I
never thought, I never allowed myself to think, that she was so dead to
spiritual things as her book forces me to believe. Even her good people,
her heroine, have not a vestige of religion, only a sort of vague
morality, right for the sake of right, and love teaching people things;
nothing real."
There was a moment's silence.
"Hester is my sister," said Mr. Gresley, "and I am fond of her in spite
of all, and she has no one to look to for help and guidance but me. I am
her only near relation. That is why I feel so much the way she
disregards all I say. She does not realize that it is for her sake I
speak."
Mr. Gresley thought he was sincere, because he was touched.
Mrs. Gresley's cheek burned. That faithful, devoted little heart, which
lived only for her husband and children, could not brook--_what?_ That
her priest should be grieved and disregarded? Or was it any affection
for and interest in another woman that it could not brook?
"I have made up my mind," said Mr. Gresley, "to forbid her most solemnly
when she comes back to-morrow to publish that book."
"She does not come back to-morrow, but this evening," said the young
wife; and pushed by some violent, nameless feeling which was too strong
for her, she added, "She will not obey you. When has she ever listened
to what you say? She will laugh at you, James. She always laughs at you.
And the book will be published all the same."
"It shall not," said Mr. Gresley, coloring darkly. "I shall not allow
it."
"You can't prevent it," said Mrs. Gresley, her breath coming quickly.
She was not thinking of the book at all, but of the writer. What was a
book, one more or one less? It was her duty to speak the truth to her
husband. His sister, whom he thought so much of, had no respect for his
opinion, and he ought to know it. Mr. Gresley did know it, but he felt
no particular satisfaction in his wife's presentment of the fact.
"It is no use saying I can't prevent it," he said, coldly, letting his
arm fall by his side. He was no longer thinking of the book either, but
of the disregard of his opinion, nay, of his authority, which had long
gravelled him in his sister's attitude towards him. "I shall use my
authority when I see fit, and if I have so far used persuasion rather
than authority, it was only because, in my humble opinion, it was the
wisest course."
"It has always failed," said Mrs. Gresley, stung by the slackening of
his arm. Yes. In spite of the new baby, she would rather have a hundred
a year less than have this woman in the house. The wife ought to come
first. By first, Mrs. Gresley meant without a second. She had this
morning seen Emma laying Hester's clean clothes on her bed, just
returned from a distant washer-woman whom the Gresleys did not employ,
and whom they had not wished Hester to employ. The sight of those two
white dressing-gowns, beautifully "got up" with goffered frills, had
aroused afresh in Mrs. Gresley what she believed to be indignation at
Hester's extravagance, an indignation which had been increased when she
caught sight of her own untidy wrapper over her chair. She always
appeared to disadvantage in Hester's presence. The old smouldering
grievance about the washing set a light to other feelings. They caught.
They burned. They had been drying in the oven a long time.
"It has always failed," said Mrs. Gresley, with subdued passion, "and it
will fail again. I heard you tell Mrs. Loftus that you would never let
Hester publish another book like the _Idyll_. But though you say this
one is worse, you won't be able to stop her. You will see when she
comes back that she will pack up the parcel and send it back to the
publishers, whatever you may say."
The young couple were so absorbed in their conversation that they had
not observed the approach of a tall, clerical figure whom the
parlor-maid was escorting towards them.
"I saw you through the window, and I said I would join you in the
garden," said Archdeacon Thursby, majestically. "I have been lunching
with the Pratts. They naturally wished to hear the details of the
lamented death of our mutual friend, Lord Newhaven."
Archdeacon Thursby was the clergyman who had been selected, as a friend
of Lady Newhaven's, to break to her her husband's death.
"It seems," he added, "that a Miss West, who was at the Abbey at the
time, is an intimate friend of the Pratts."
Mrs. Gresley slipped away to order tea, the silver teapot, etc.
The Archdeacon was a friend of Mr. Gresley's. Mr. Gresley had not many
friends among the clergy, possibly because he always attributed the
popularity of any of his brethren to a laxity of principle on their
part, or their success, if they did succeed, to the peculiarly easy
circumstances in which they were placed. But he greatly admired the
Archdeacon, and made no secret of the fact that, in his opinion, he
ought to have been the Bishop of the diocese.
A long conversation now ensued on clerical matters, and Mr. Gresley's
drooping spirits revived under a refreshing _douche_ of compliments on
"Modern Dissent."
The idea flashed across his mind of asking the Archdeacon's advice
regarding Hester's book. His opinion carried weight. His remarks on
"Modern Dissent" showed how clear, how statesmanlike his judgment was.
Mr. Gresley decided to lay the matter before him, and to consult him as
to his responsibility in the matter. The Archdeacon did not know Hester.
He did not know--for he lived at a distance of several miles--that Mr.
Gresley had a sister who had written a book.
Mr. Gresley did not wish him to become aware of this last fact, for we
all keep our domestic skeletons in their cupboards, so he placed a
hypothetical case before his friend.
Supposing some one he knew, a person for whose actions he felt himself
partly responsible, had written a most unwise letter, and this letter,
by no fault of Mr. Gresley's, had fallen into his hands and been read by
him. What was he, Mr. Gresley, to do? The letter, if posted, would
certainly get the writer into trouble, and would cause acute humiliation
to the writer's family. What would the Archdeacon do, in his place?
Mr. Gresley did not perceive that the hypothetical case was not "on all
fours" with the real one. His first impulse had been to gain the opinion
of an expert without disclosing family dissensions. Did some unconscious
secondary motive impel him to shape the case so that only one verdict
was probable?
The good Archdeacon ruminated, asked a few questions, and then said,
without hesitation:
"I cannot see your difficulty. Your course is clear. You are
responsible--"
"To a certain degree."
"To a certain degree for the action of an extremely injudicious friend
or relation who writes a letter which will get him and others into
trouble. It providentially falls into your hands. If I were in your
place I should destroy it, inform your friend that I had done so
principally for his own sake, and endeavor to bring him to a better mind
on the subject."
"Supposing the burning of the letter entailed a money loss?"
"I judge from what you say of this particular letter that any money that
accrued from it would be ill-gotten gains."
"Oh! decidedly."
"Then burn it; and if your friend remains obstinate he can always write
it again; but we must hope that by gaining time you will be able to
arouse his better feelings, and at least induce him to moderate its
tone."
"Of course he could write it again if he remains obstinate. I never
thought of that," said Mr. Gresley, in a low voice. "So he would not
eventually lose the money if he was still decided to gain it in an
unscrupulous manner. Or I could help him to rewrite it. I never thought
of that before."
"Your course is perfectly clear, my dear Gresley," said the Archdeacon,
not impatiently, but as one who is ready to open up a new subject. "Your
tender conscience alone makes the difficulty. Is not Mrs. Gresley
endeavoring to attract our attention?"
Mrs. Gresley was beckoning them in to tea.
When the Archdeacon had departed, Mr. Gresley said to his wife: "I have
talked over the matter with him, not mentioning names, of course. He is
a man of great judgment. He advises me to burn it."
"Hester's book?"
"Yes."
"He is quite right, I think," said Mrs. Gresley, her hands trembling, as
she took up her work. Hester would never forgive her brother if he did
that. It would certainly cause a quarrel between them. Young married
people did best without a third person in the house.
"Will you follow his advice?" she asked.
"I don't know. I--you see--poor Hester!--it has taken her a long time to
write. I wish to goodness she would leave writing alone."
"She is coming home this evening," said his wife, significantly.
Mr. Gresley abruptly left the room, and went back to his study. He was
irritated, distressed.
Providence seemed to have sent the Archdeacon to advise him. And the
Archdeacon had spoken with decision. "Burn it," that was what he had
said, "and tell your friend that you have done so."
It did not strike Mr. Gresley that the advice might have been somewhat
different if the question had been respecting the burning of a book
instead of a letter. Such subtleties had never been allowed to occupy
Mr. Gresley's mind. He was, as he often said, no splitter of hairs.
He told himself that from the very first moment of consulting him he had
dreaded that the Archdeacon would counsel exactly as he had done. Mr.
Gresley stood a long time in silent prayer by his study window. If his
prayers took the same bias as his recent statements to his friend, was
that his fault? If he silenced, as a sign of cowardice, a voice within
him which entreated for delay, was that his fault? If he had never
educated himself to see any connection between a seed and a plant, a
cause and a result, was that his fault? The first seedling impulse to
destroy the book was buried and forgotten. If he mistook this towering,
full-grown determination which had sprung from it for the will of God,
the direct answer to prayer, was that his fault?
As his painful duty became clear to him, a thin veil of smoke drifted
across the little lawn.
Regie came dancing and caracoling round the corner.
"Father!" he cried, rushing to the window, "Abel has made such a bonfire
in the back-yard, and he is burning weeds and all kinds of things, and
he has given us each a ''tato' to bake, and Fräulein has given us a
band-box she did not want, and we've filled it quite full of dry leaves.
And do you think if we wait a little Auntie Hester will be back in time
to see it burn?"
It was a splendid bonfire. It leaped. It rose and fell. It was
replenished. Something alive in the heart of it died hard. The children
danced round it.
"Oh, if only Auntie Hester was here!" said Regie, clapping his hands as
the flame soared.
But "Auntie Hester" was too late to see it.