MUTUAL CONFESSION
WHEN Michael rose the next day, he found to his satisfaction that the
wind had changed. It no longer blew from the north-east. There was a
soft, spring-like feeling in the air. It was time for Spring to
herald her approach. The winter had been long and hard. No one felt
more pleasure at the thought of its departure than did Michael Betts.
He opened his shop betimes on this fair morning, and then set to work
to put things in order there. He felt very weak as he did so. More
than once he dropped the heavy volumes he tried to lift. It was clear
he was not the man he had been. No, he was beginning to fail. And
then he thought with a smile and a sigh of the little fair-haired
maiden who had thought him "so very old." He was very anxious to know
how this morning found her. He kept hoping that the girl whose
acquaintance he had made in so strange a manner would come in to tell
him how the little sufferer was; but she did not come, and at last,
unable to wait longer, he sent Mrs. Wiggins round to the house to
make inquiries.
The news she brought cheered him greatly. She had been told that the
little girl had taken a turn for the better, and there now seemed
hope of her recovery.
"Thank God!" ejaculated old Michael.
He could not trust himself to say more. He felt so glad that he could
have cried like a child for very gladness. As it was he had to take
off his spectacles and wipe them very carefully more than once before
he could go on with his work.
"Thank God," he said to himself over and over again. God had heard
his prayer—their prayer. How he wished his new friend would come
in, that they might rejoice together! He had known her but for a day;
he did not even know her name; but the sorrow and anxiety they had
shared, the prayer they had joined in breathing forth as from one
heart, had united them by a close bond of sympathy which years of
ordinary acquaintance could not have wrought.
But the girl did not appear all that day, nor the second day, nor the
third. Michael began to feel a vague uneasiness concerning her.
"Surely she might have come round just to say how pleased she was,"
he thought. "Can it be that she wants to drop my acquaintance, or is
her father worse? If only I knew where she lived, I'd go and see."
Meanwhile each day Margery was reported to be a little better. Her
throat grew clearer, her voice more distinct, and signs of returning
strength gladdened the heart of her anxious mother, till at length
the little one's recovery no longer seemed doubtful.
How thankful Michael was, no words can tell. He felt that if the
little one had died, he could never have forgiven himself for what he
had done. As it was, the burden of his past weighed heavily on his
mind. He fell into the habit of walking round to Mrs. Lavers' house
every evening when his shop was closed. He would carry with him some
little gift of flowers or fruit for the child. And Mrs. Lavers never
refused these, never showed by word or look the least consciousness
of the wrong he had done her.
Once when he spoke of it, she said: "Dear friend, let us forget all
about that. Our Lord taught us that if we did not forgive the brother
who wronged us, we could have no blessed sense of God's forgiving
love. I forgive you from my heart, and God will forgive you too if
you ask Him."
But old Michael went home with a heavy heart. He remembered how he
had treated his own brother, and it seemed to him that he had no
right to expect that God would forgive him his sins.
One evening Michael was in his shop, setting things in order at the
close of the day. He had not yet put up his shutters; but he scarcely
expected to have any more customers that day, when suddenly the door
opened, the bell tinkled, and he looked up to see the worn,
weary-looking preacher entering the shop. It was some time since this
gentleman had been there, and Michael was pleased to see him again.
"Just in time, sir," he said; "in another ten minutes my shutters
would have been up."
"Ah, well, I am very glad to find you here," replied the gentleman;
"though I do not come as a purchaser. But what is the matter with
you, Betts? You are not looking at all well."
"I have not been well, sir; but I'm better now. I've had a sharp
attack of rheumatic fever, and it has left me as you see. I shall
never be again the man I was."
"Dear me! I am sorry to hear that. Rheumatism is a terrible thing.
You do look as if it had pulled you down. And unhappily I bring you
news that will distress you. Do you know I am visiting a poor man in
the district where my mission-hall is who tells me he is your
brother."
Michael started and changed colour.
"It's true, sir," he said, after a moment's pause; "he is my brother."
"I thought so. I could not doubt his story as he told it. It is a sad
story, Mr. Betts. He is now on his death-bed. I have come to entreat
you to go with me to him."
Michael sank on to the nearest chair. He was trembling so that he
could not stand. He said nothing, and the gentleman went on speaking.
"He feels that he has wronged you grievously, and he wants to make
what amends he can, and to hear you say you forgive him, ere he
passes away. I don't think you will find it hard to forgive him when
you see him as he is."
"There's no need to talk so, sir. You don't understand. I've most
need to ask his forgiveness. The wrong wasn't all on one side. I can
see that now, though I couldn't before. Where is he, if you please,
sir?"
"At no great distance. I will take you there at once, if you can
come."
"Ay, I can come, sir; I have only to put up the shutters, and I shall
be ready."
So in a few minutes they were on their way. In Oxford Street, the
gentleman hailed an omnibus going westward, into which he helped old
Michael, and then seated himself beside him. From this they alighted
when it had carried them about a couple of miles.
"Now, do you feel able to walk a few steps?" the minister asked
Michael.
"Yes, yes, I can walk," he replied; but in truth, he felt faint and
tremulous, and could not have walked far. Happily it took them but a
few minutes to reach their destination. A dreary, miserable street it
was, though it lay very near to the large and handsome dwellings of
the rich.
Michael looked with dismay on the dirty, squalid houses, the
ill-kempt, slatternly women who sat on the doorsteps, or hung about
the public-houses—there were three in the street, though it was not
long—and the ragged urchins who disported themselves in the road.
The minister paused before one of the houses. The wretched-looking
women crouched together on the doorstep slowly rose and made room for
them to pass into the house. The minister led the way up a foul and
rickety staircase. Not till he reached the top did he pause and tap
at a door. A voice within bade him enter, and he opened the door and
advanced into the room.
Michael was slowly following him. The steep stairs tried his
breathing, the close, ill-smelling atmosphere made him feel faint. He
had to pause at the top of the stairs, clinging for a moment to the
unsteady bannister, ere he could find strength to advance. As he
waited, he heard a weak voice within asking painfully:
"Will he not come, Mr. Mason? Oh, don't tell me that he refuses to
come!"
Michael went forward quickly into the room. It was a poor place. A
table, a couple of chairs, a box or two, and the bed on which the
sick man lay, were all the furniture; but it was fairly clean, and
there were tokens of womanly efforts to make things as comfortable as
they might be. By the bed stood the girl whose acquaintance Michael
had made at Mrs. Lavers' door.
He started, and an exclamation of surprise escaped him as he
recognised her; but she made a quick movement enjoining him to
silence, and he said nothing.
"I've come, Frank," he said, turning his eyes upon the bed; "I've
come, and with all my heart, I wish I had come sooner."
There could be little doubt that the hand of death was on the man who
lay there. His wasted face was deadly pale, the breath came with
difficulty through his parted lips; there was a look of anguish in
his eyes, and when he spoke it was by a painful effort.
"Thank God you've come in time, Michael. Will you come and sit here
close beside me, so you may hear what I have to say, though I can't
speak loud?"
Michael took the seat indicated without a word. Such emotions swept
over him at the sight of his brother that it was impossible to speak.
"Kate," said the sick man, making a sign which she understood in a
moment.
She knelt down beside the bed, and began fumbling for something
beneath the mattress. Presently she drew forth a tiny bag made of
faded scarlet flannel, which she placed beside her father.
"Michael," said the sick man feebly, "I was a sore trial to you
before we parted. You might well feel ashamed of me, as I know you
did. I was a bad, ungrateful brother."
"Don't speak of it," said Michael huskily; "never mind that now."
"But I must speak of it. I sent for you that I might speak of it, as
Mr. Mason knows. Michael, the last time you gave me shelter in your
home I was so ungrateful, so shameless, that I stole one of your
books and carried it off with me."
"I know that you did," replied Michael, "but never mind that now,
Frank."
"It was a Greek book," continued the other, without heeding his
words. "I'd heard you say that it was worth seven pounds. I could not
get that for it; but I found a dealer who was willing to give me
half, and for that I sold it. The money soon went in drink, and I
thought no more about it for a long time. Then I married. At first I
let my wife think that I had no one in the world belonging to me; but
one day when I'd taken a drop too much, I let out that I had a
brother who was a well-to-do tradesman, and then she set her heart on
seeing me reconciled to my brother. I had to tell her the whole story
at last, just to make her see it was impossible. But even then she
would not see it. No; she just said that I must save the money I'd
had for the book, and pay it back to you. It was she who began the
saving, you see. We did not get on very fast with the saving; but we
made a beginning. Then she fell ill. Mr. Mason began to visit us
then. He's been a good friend to us. He tried to make me a sober man
for a long, long while before he succeeded."
"Don't say that I succeeded," said Mr. Mason. "It was the grace of
Christ that delivered you from sin and enabled you to begin a new
life."
"It is more than a year ago," said the sick man slowly, "since I took
the pledge, and Kate and I have been trying ever since to add to the
money in the bag. My wife left it in Kate's hands; she knew she could
not trust it to me. It has not been easy to save. Kate put most into
it, not I. She's a good girl is Kate, though I say it."
"Ah, she's a good girl," said Michael, so fervently that his brother
looked at him in surprise.
"What, you say so too? But you do not know her."
"I can tell by the looks of her," said Michael evasively.
"Ah, well—it's true anyway. But now about this money, Michael. I
have so longed to make your loss good. I thought you'd believe I was
a changed man if I gave you back your money. But it's been hard work.
We've had to draw out some of the money since I've been ill. There's
only five pounds in the bag now, and I wanted to make it seven, for
you said the book was worth that to you. Here's the money; take it
and count it."
But Michael pushed the bag from it.
"No, no, Frank; keep the money. I don't want it, indeed. I would
rather not have it."
"But you must take it," cried the other excitedly. "I can't rest
unless you do. Ah, Michael, you don't know, an honest, respectable
man as you've always been, what it is to have the burden of such a
deed resting on your conscience."
"Don't say that, Frank—don't for goodness sake talk that way, for
it's not true!"
"But it is true," protested the other; "don't I know the good,
honest, steady man you've always been? Haven't I sometimes felt proud
that I had such a brother, and wished enough that I'd been more like
you? Why, I've told Kate here about you often enough. Once I sent her
round to the shop, to have a look at the place and to see the kind of
man you were."
"But all the while you were under a mistake concerning me," groaned
Michael, feeling himself compelled to confession. "What if I were to
tell you that I am a man who has robbed the fatherless and the widow?"
"I'd not believe it," returned his brother. "No, not if you said it
with your own lips, Michael."
"But it is true," he cried. And then brokenly, confusedly, he told
the story of how he had kept the bank-notes he had found in the
professor's book.
There was silence for some moments when he had ceased. Then the sick
man leaned forward and laid his wasted hand on his brother's.
"Oh, I am so sorry for you, Michael," he whispered. "I know what you
must have suffered with that burden on your heart. We are
fellow-sinners."
"But I am the worse," said Michael. "'The first shall be last,' the
Bible says. In the pride of my heart I thought myself far above you;
but you would never have done a thing like that. No, you have been a
better man than I all along. It's bad to be profligate; but I do
believe it is worse to have a hard, unloving, pharisaical heart."
"'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins,'" said the minister; and, as they all kept silence, he began to
pray aloud, expressing as he believed the desire of each heart as he
besought the Divine Father to forgive and blot out the sins of the
past.
And as he prayed, its burden fell from the spirit of Michael Betts;
his proud, hard heart was broken, and became as the heart of a little
child in its sorrow and contrition. It was the birth-hour of a new
life to him.