"Have I Done Wrong?"
IN his beloved old coat, ragged and paint-stained, and his workman's
apron, the Rector stood before a half-finished piece of woodcarving,
a handsome lectern, destined for a poor East-End parish. Other carved
work, just begun or nearly done, lay around him. In one corner a pile
of unglazed picture-frames awaited attention. The shed boasted little
furniture, as such, but it held a carpenter's bench, a turning-lathe,
and a multiplicity of tools. At present he was entirely engrossed by
the lectern.
He was always happy with chisel and mallet. Handiwork was with him
a passion; and though his life-business lay in other lines, he found
here his recreation and his joy.
Lines that he would not have chosen for himself! Strong pressure
through years had been used, to force him thitherward. His mother,
a woman of determined will, had made up her mind that he should take
holy orders, and had refused to hear reason. The son had slowly
yielded, believing that this insistent pressure might in itself
constitute a "call."
A born mechanic, he might have excelled as an engineer. With the best
intentions, the most earnest endeavour, he never would excel as a
"Parson." Critics spoke of him often as an unmitigated failure; and
they went too far. No man who puts his heart into his work, and does
his utmost, even though he has no natural gift for it, can be an
unmitigated failure. But a success, from the ordinary point of view,
he was not.
Though duty was never neglected by him, parish work ranked as a
perpetual burden, and the visitation of sick and bereaved folk as a
never-ending terror. Few guessed the fact, while condemning his
uncouthness. His was a childlike nature, combining genuine enthusiasm
with a man's shrewdness; but also it included something of animal
dumbness. He could not voice his own emotions, could not say what
he thought, could not express what he felt.
There were indeed seasons when, unexpectedly, he would break through
these restraining bonds, when some sudden emergency would call forth
his real strength of character. Then dumbness ceased, and he could
take the lead, and take it well. But such occasions were few and far
between. Usually, he only asked to be left in the background which he
loved.
He was a square man in a round hole; and, do what he might, he never
could fill the empty space. In the nature of things, this was
impossible. A touch of the pathetic in such a sight, is there not?
But has it ever occurred to you, how much grander a thing it is for a
square man to be striving his heroic best to fill a round hole—even
though the result be failure!—than for a round man to slip easily and
without effort into a round hole which just fits him? The one means
exertion, struggle, self-denial. The other means—nothing!
Do you question this? Think of a boat on a powerful river. From which
does the looker-on gain most—from a man fighting bravely against the
stream, whether he succeeds or fails, or from a man swept easily down
by the force of the current? Mr. Winton's daily battle formed an
object-lesson to more than one silent observer.
When Doris came to the shed, and found her father in pleased
contemplation of his handiwork, she had come to the right place.
She was in a cloudy mood this morning, and things looked awry. And she
felt that, though the dear old daddy—she called him "daddy" still,
when they were alone—might say little, he would understand.
Twice he glanced up from the work which he had resumed, with a
scrutinising glance.
"Eh, child?" came at length. "What is it?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm only tired of things, daddy. I should like to get
away."
"Where?"
"Anywhere. I don't mind. Don't you sometimes feel so?"
"I've had the sensation."
"And only yesterday I thought I wouldn't. I saw poor Winnie Morris,
and she made me ashamed of not being contented. But this morning—
somehow—"
Her father's broad hand, with its delicate capabilities, just touched
hers. "I know—" it said.
"What do you do when you get a fit like that, daddy?"
"Knock it down," the Rector said grimly.
"And if it knocks you down?"
"Get up and fight it."
She laughed a little.
"I suppose one never ought to wish for anything one hasn't got."
"I don't say that. There is a right as well as a wrong way of wishing.
And there is a Divine discontent, as well as a discontent which isn't
Divine."
"And the Divine discontent—?" she questioned.
"Do you remember Mrs. Gatty's Parables? I suppose it is the sort that
makes the grub climb out of the pond, to become the winged creature."
"I'm afraid mine is the discontent that isn't Divine," she said
slowly. "I want things changed —different—and—Winnie said things were
right because God had arranged them for us. I don't think I feel like
that in the least."
The Rector looked up in her face. The one person with whom he was not
tongue-tied was this daughter?
"My dear—some of God's saints have taken fifty years to learn that
lesson perfectly."
"To learn that things are right—because—"
"To learn that, whatever our conditions may be, those conditions are
the best that can be for us—in view of the future. It means a great
deal. It means—knowing God, knowing Christ, with a personal intimate
knowledge—as man knows man—and trusting His love and wisdom—as friend
trusts friend. We begin with infantine knowledge. We go on to that."
"And Winnie has got to that, you think!"
"I don't know how far Winnie has got. I don't suppose she knows
herself. She is learning—we are all learning. Some are more willing
to be taught than others. And our Father puts us, each one, into just
that class in His earthly school where we can best be taught."
"Then one ought never to wish for change?"
"One ought never to give in to a spirit of discontent. Natural
'wishing' is a different matter—if we keep our hold on the reins.
But always remember—He loves—and He knows best."
Doris kept silence so long that he went back to his work, and
presently lost himself in it, forgetting all else. She would not
interrupt him again, but after watching a little while, she went out;
and the Squire soon came in her stead. He too stood gazing. For the
Rector with his tools was a sight worth looking at; a picture of power
and perfect content. Sermon-writing had hung fire, and in despair
he had escaped hither. Often he could not command his brain to work;
but always he could command his hands.
"Morning—" he murmured in response to a movement. "Sit down, please.
I'll attend—two minutes."
Mr. Stirling obeyed, using the one chair. He knew that the two minutes
would expand, for Mr. Winton at work had no consciousness of time.
But for once it was the latter who spoke.
"I say—what has put into that child's wanting to get away?"
"Doris's?"
"Aye."
"Why not let her go?"
The Rector looked up, shook his head, and gazed at the lectern.
"You think she could not be spared."
"Can't afford it."
"But if her expenses were undertaken?
"That's not likely. And after all—the child is well. Her turn will
come some day. No need yet."
"Well, if an offer does come—and I have a notion that it may—don't
refuse, that is all. A few weeks or months abroad would do her no end
of good."
"Not months." But the Rector had grown thoughtful. Mr. Stirling,
satisfied to have set the stone rolling, went to the Rectory garden,
and there came across Doris, busy with her pigeons. She wore a pink
blouse and a holland skirt; and her pretty face, with its dusky hair
and deep-set eyes, broke into smiles at the sight of him. The pigeons
rose with their startled swish, and her mind reverted to Winnie
Morris. Here was an opportunity! True, Winnie had asked her not to
speak; but she had confidence in her own judgment; and of course
she would not let slip that which she had promised not to mention.
"Real June weather," she remarked, forgetful by this time of her
discontent. "Mr. Stirling, I want to say something. We went the other
day to Wyldd's Farm—Katherine and Mrs. Brutt and I."
"So I hear."
"And we saw Farmer Paine's niece and her girls. I don't care for the
elder one; but Winnie is sweet."
He made a hole in the bed with his walking-stick, and pushed neatly
in a fallen leaf.
"You know them, don't you? Winnie said you had always been their
friend. It sounded droll—put in that way!"—and she laughed. "That
queer Mrs. Morris, and that vulgar Jane—and you!" She glanced up
with girlish admiration at the pale dignified Squire. "But of course
I knew what she meant. You have been good to them, as you are
to everybody. But don't you think Winnie ought to see a doctor?"
"Mrs. Morris will, no doubt, call one in if necessary."
"But Winnie said you would know you would tell them, if she ought.
She almost seemed to think her mother wouldn't do anything without
asking you first. Funny—wasn't it?" Doris stopped, noting the tension
of his face, and he spoke with constraint—
"It is kind of you to feel an interest in the girl. She is delicate;
and I believe not much can be done for her. Mrs. Morris must herself
decide whether to have a doctor."
"Yes,—so I should have thought, but for what Winnie said. Poor girl,
I'm so sorry for her. One day she fainted in church, and she says
she almost always has pain. It must be frightfully hard to bear.
And she looks so patient! I mean to cycle over sometimes, and try
to cheer her up. I should like to know her better."
"You must be careful. The elder girl is pushing. Your mother would
dislike the companionship for you."
Doris laughed merrily. "Oh, that is nothing. We 'clergy-folk' have
to know everybody, and we don't mind. I'm not in the very least afraid
of being taken for one of Jane Morris's friends!" No young princess
could have held herself with more stateliness than Doris at that
moment. "It's odd, two sisters being so unlike. Somebody said that
Jane lived for years with her mother's relatives—not dear old Farmer
Paine, of course, but others—and that she got into their ways. But I
should like to be a friend to poor Winnie."
"I think you should be cautious. Better not to take steps in a hurry,
and then have to draw back."
He left Doris vaguely impressed, and rather puzzled also, and made his
way to Wyldd's Farm.
Jane was out, and he had first a private talk with Mrs. Morris. Then
he returned to the sitting-room, and took a chair by Winnie's side.
She was on the sofa, suffering too much to sit up. His manner had a
touch of coldness, and she scanned him with anxious eyes.
"Winnie, I don't wish to find fault, and you are not to distress
yourself. But I have a request to make."
Her lips parted with a gasp.
"I think you have been indiscreet. Yesterday you saw Miss Winton."
Her face fell.
"Yes. I'm sorry. I know! She was so kind, and for a moment I forgot."
To herself Winnie added bitterly, "I didn't think she would have let
it out."
"You forgot—what?"
"We were talking, and I—somehow I said—something. I forgot that you
don't like people to know how kind you've been to us—paying for Raye,
and all that!" She glanced up penitently. "I know it was wrong. But I
didn't mean—"
"You told Miss Winton about Raye!" This was news, and his face
darkened.
"I'm so sorry. It—somehow it just slipped out. I don't think I said
'school,' but I did say 'college.'"
"You have always been told that these things were not to be
mentioned."
"I know! I forgot."
Winnie was fighting to keep down sobs. "She—she—promised—she wouldn't
tell anybody."
This brought a frown.
"She! Do you mean Miss Winton? What reason did you give for asking her
to be silent?"
"I said—oh, I said—you didn't—didn't—like people to know it."
"I do not. Stop crying, and listen to me." But he ordered in vain.
The little thin hands were clenched over her face. He put a kind hand
on her shoulder, and that only made her worse.
"Winnie—stop!" She obeyed this time, and sobbed no more, but the
slight frame was convulsed. Mrs. Morris brought a glass of water,
and he made her sip it.
"Now you are better. Don't begin again. If you do, I shall have to go
away."
She clutched at his sleeve. "Oh please—please—don't."
He waited in silence, till the struggles for self-control were
successful.
"Now you must listen to me. I wish you once for all to understand.
People do not know what you mean, when you talk in that way; and it
causes gossip. Remember, I owe much to your mother, for her care of
Miss Stirling in infancy. I am always grateful for it; and if I choose
to show particular kindness to her and you, that is my affair. But I
do not choose my actions to be made the talk of Lynnbrooke. Even Jane
knows this. I have warned her; and she does not forget. I did not
think it would be needful to warn you."
The girl pressed her handkerchief to quivering lips.
"Miss Winton did not tell me that you had talked about Raye's
expenses. What she did say was that you spoke of me as your 'friend."
"Yes—" faintly.
"I hope I am a friend to you, and to all my tenants. But I object to
have comparisons made, and jealousies aroused. If I have helped you
as a family more than other families, I am perfectly free to do so;
and I have my reasons, which do not concern other people. If it is
talked about, those other people, not understanding, will expect the
same for themselves. You see now! I want you to act with discretion,
like a woman, not like a thoughtless child. It did not matter so much
in Norfolk, but it does matter here. You must say nothing; you must
tell nothing; either to Miss Winton or to anybody else."
She nodded silently.
"Then I need say no more. Come—there is no need to cry. Only be
careful in future."
He stayed a few minutes longer, then said good-bye. Winnie hid her
face in the cushion. He had never before shown displeasure towards
her.
"It's your own fault," Mrs. Morris said stolidly. "If you hadn't been
a little goose, you wouldn't have brought it on yourself. And I'll
tell you what—if Miss Winton takes to coming here, it's got to be
stopped somehow."
"Why?"
"He says so."
Winnie sighed, as her one scrap of blue sky clouded over.
But the difficulty did not arise. Doris was too much excited, too
fully occupied, with the projected foreign trip, to have leisure for
aught else. She did not forget her promise; and she still meant to go
"some time." But the Squire had thrown cold water, and everything
seemed to conspire to prevent her. When the time came to start with
Mrs. Brutt, she had not again seen Winnie.