THE SORE SPOT.
We went on talking for some time. Indeed we talked so long that the
dinner-hour was approaching, when one of the maids came with the message
that Mr. Stokes had called again, wishing to see me. I could not help
smiling inwardly at the news. I went down at once, and found him smiling
too.
"My wife do send me for you this time, sir," he said. "Between you and me,
I cannot help thinking she have something on her mind she wants to tell
you, sir."
"Why shouldn't she tell you, Mr. Stokes? That would be most natural. And
then, if you wanted any help about it, why, of course, here I am."
"She don't think well enough of my judgment for that, sir; and I daresay
she be quite right. She always do make me give in before she have done
talking. But she have been a right good wife to me, sir."
"Perhaps she would have been a better if you hadn't given in quite so much.
It is very wrong to give in when you think you are right."
"But I never be sure of it when she talk to me awhile."
"Ah, then I have nothing to say except that you ought to have been
surer--_sometimes;_ I don't say _always."_
"But she do want you very bad now, sir. I don't think she'll behave to you
as she did before. Do come, sir."
"Of course I will--instantly."
I returned to the study, and asked Percivale if he would like to go with
me. He looked, I thought, as if he would rather not. I saw that it was
hardly kind to ask him.
"Well, perhaps it is better not," I said; "for I do not know how long I may
have to be with the poor woman. You had better wait here and take my place
at the dinner-table. I promise not to depose you if I should return before
the meal is over."
He thanked me very heartily. I showed him into the drawing-room, told my
wife where I was going, and not to wait dinner for me--I would take my
chance--and joined Mr. Stokes.
"You have no idea, then," I said, after we had gone about half-way, "what
makes your wife so uneasy?"
"No, I haven't," he answered; "except it be," he resumed, "that she was too
hard, as I thought, upon our Mary, when she wanted to marry beneath her, as
wife thought."
"How beneath her? Who was it she wanted to marry?"
"She did marry him, sir. She has a bit of her mother's temper, you see, and
she would take her own way."
"Ah, there's a lesson to mothers, is it not? If they want to have their own
way, they mustn't give their own temper to their daughters."
"But how are they to help it, sir?"
"Ah, how indeed? But what is your daughter's husband?"
"A labourer, sir. He works on a farm out by Carpstone."
"But you have worked on Mr. Barton's farm for many years, if I don't
mistake?"
"I have, sir; but I am a sort of a foreman now, you see."
"But you weren't so always; and your son-in-law, whether he work his way up
or not, is, I presume, much where you were when you married Mrs. Stokes?"
"True as you say, sir; and it's not me that has anything to say about it. I
never gave the man a nay. But you see, my wife, she always do be wanting to
get her head up in the world; and since she took to the shopkeeping--"
"The shopkeeping!" I said, with some surprise; "I didn't know that."
"Well, you see, sir, it's only for a quarter or so of the year. You know
it's a favourite walk for the folks as comes here for the bathing--past our
house, to see the great cave down below; and my wife, she got a bit of a
sign put up, and put a few ginger-beer bottles in the window, and--"
"A bad place for the ginger-beer," I said.
"They were only empty ones, with corks and strings, you know, sir. My wife,
she know better than put the ginger-beer its own self in the sun. But I do
think she carry her head higher after that; and a farm-labourer, as they
call them, was none good enough for her daughter."
"And hasn't she been kind to her since she married, then?"
"She's never done her no harm, sir."
"But she hasn't gone to see her very often, or asked her to come and see
you very often, I suppose?"
"There's ne'er a one o' them crossed the door of the other," he answered,
with some evident feeling of his own in the matter.
"Ah; but you don't approve of that yourself, Stokes?"
"Approve of it? No, sir. I be a farm-labourer once myself; and so I do want
to see my own daughter now and then. But she take after her mother, she do.
I don't know which of the two it is as does it, but there's no coming and
going between Carpstone and this."
We were approaching the house. I told Stokes he had better let her know I
was there; for that, if she had changed her mind, it was not too late for
me to go home again without disturbing her. He came back saying she was
still very anxious to see me.
"Well, Mrs. Stokes, how do you feel to-day?" I asked, by way of opening the
conversation. "I don't think you look much worse."
"I be much worse, sir. You don't know what I suffer, or you wouldn't make
so little of it. I be very bad."
"I know you are very ill, but I hope you are not too ill to tell me why you
are so anxious to see me. You have got something to tell me, I suppose."
With pale and death-like countenance, she appeared to be fighting more with
herself than with the disease which yet had nearly overcome her. The drops
stood upon her forehead, and she did not speak. Wishing to help her, if I
might, I said--
"Was it about your daughter you wanted to speak to me?"
"No," she muttered. "I have nothing to say about my daughter. She was my
own. I could do as I pleased with her."
I thought with myself, we must have a word about that by and by, but
meantime she must relieve her heart of the one thing whose pressure she
feels.
"Then," I said, "you want to tell me about something that was not your
own?"
"Who said I ever took what was not my own?" she returned fiercely. "Did
Stokes dare to say I took anything that wasn't my own?"
"No one has said anything of the sort. Only I cannot help thinking, from
your own words and from your own behaviour, that that must be the cause of
your misery."
"It is very hard that the parson should think such things," she muttered
again.
"My poor woman," I said, "you sent for me because you had something to
confess to me. I want to help you if I can. But you are too proud to
confess it yet, I see. There is no use in my staying here. It only does you
harm. So I will bid you good-morning. If you cannot confess to me, confess
to God."
"God knows it, I suppose, without that."
"Yes. But that does not make it less necessary for you to confess it. How
is he to forgive you, if you won't allow that you have done wrong?"
"It be not so easy that as you think. How would you like to say you had
took something that wasn't your own?"
"Well, I shouldn't like it, certainly; but if I had it to do, I think I
should make haste and do it, and so get rid of it."
"But that's the worst of it; I can't get rid of it."
"But," I said, laying my hand on hers, and trying to speak as kindly as I
could, although her whole behaviour would have been exceedingly repulsive
but for her evidently great suffering, "you have now all but confessed
taking something that did not belong to you. Why don't you summon courage
and tell me all about it? I want to help you out of the trouble as easily
as ever I can; but I can't if you don't tell me what you've got that isn't
yours."
"I haven't got anything," she muttered.
"You had something, then, whatever may have become of it now."
She was again silent.
"What did you do with it?"
"Nothing."
I rose and took up my hat. She stretched out her hand, as if to lay hold of
me, with a cry.
"Stop, stop. I'll tell you all about it. I lost it again. That's the worst
of it. I got no good of it."
"What was it?"
"A sovereign," she said, with a groan. "And now I'm a thief, I suppose."
"No more a thief than you were before. Rather less, I hope. But do you
think it would have been any better for you if you hadn't lost it, and had
got some good of it, as you say?"
She was silent yet again.
"If you hadn't lost it you would most likely have been a great deal worse
for it than you are--a more wicked woman altogether."
"I'm not a wicked woman."
"It is wicked to steal, is it not?"
"I didn't steal it."
"How did you come by it, then?"
"I found it."
"Did you try to find out the owner?"
"No. I knew whose it was."
"Then it was very wicked not to return it. And I say again, that if you had
not lost the sovereign you would have been most likely a more wicked woman
than you are."
"It was very hard to lose it. I could have given it back. And then I
wouldn't have lost my character as I have done this day."
"Yes, you could; but I doubt if you would."
"I would."
"Now, if you had it, you are sure you would give it back?"
"Yes, that I would," she said, looking me so full in the face that I was
sure she meant it.
"How would you give it back? Would you get your husband to take it?"
"No; I wouldn't trust him."
"With the story, you mean I You do not wish to imply that he would not
restore it?"
"I don't mean that. He would do what I told him."
"How would you return it, then?"
"I should make a parcel of it, and send it."
"Without saying anything about it?"
"Yes. Where's the good? The man would have his own."
"No, he would not. He has a right to your confession, for you have wronged
him. That would never do."
"You are too hard upon me," she said, beginning to weep angrily.
"Do you want to get the weight of this sin off your mind?" I said.
"Of course I do. I am going to die. O dear! O dear!"
"Then that is just what I want to help you in. You must confess, or the
weight of it will stick there."
"But, if I confess, I shall be expected to pay it back?"
"Of course. That is only reasonable."
"But I haven't got it, I tell you. I have lost it."
"Have you not a sovereign in your possession?"
"No, not one."
"Can't you ask your husband to let you have one?"
"There! I knew it was no use. I knew you would only make matters worse. I
do wish I had never seen that wicked money."
"You ought not to abuse the money; it was not wicked. You ought to wish
that you had returned it. But that is no use; the thing is to return it
now. Has your husband got a sovereign?"
"No. He may ha' got one since I be laid up. But I never can tell him about
it; and I should be main sorry to spend one of his hard earning in that
way, poor man."
"Well, I'll tell him, and we'll manage it somehow."
I thought for a few moments she would break out in opposition; but she hid
her face with the sheet instead, and burst into a great weeping.
I took this as a permission to do as I had said, and went to the room-door
and called her husband. He came, looking scared. His wife did not look up,
but lay weeping. I hoped much for her and him too from this humiliation
before him, for I had little doubt she needed it.
"Your wife, poor woman," I said, "is in great distress because--I do not
know when or how--she picked up a sovereign that did not belong to her,
and, instead of returning, put it away somewhere and lost it. This is what
is making her so miserable."
"Deary me!" said Stokes, in the tone with which he would have spoken to a
sick child; and going up to his wife, he sought to draw down the sheet from
her face, apparently that he might kiss her; but she kept tight hold of
it, and he could not. "Deary me!" he went on; "we'll soon put that all to
rights. When was it, Jane, that you found it?"
"When we wanted so to have a pig of our own; and I thought I could soon
return it," she sobbed from under the sheet.
"Deary me! Ten years ago! Where did you find it, old woman?"
"I saw Squire Tresham drop it, as he paid me for some ginger-beer he got
for some ladies that was with him. I do believe I should ha' given it back
at the time; but he made faces at the ginger-beer, and said it was very
nasty; and I thought, well, I would punish him for it."
"You see it was your temper that made a thief of you, then," I said.
"My old man won't be so hard on me as you, sir. I wish I had told him
first."
"I would wish that too," I said, "were it not that I am afraid you might
have persuaded him to be silent about it, and so have made him miserable
and wicked too. But now, Stokes, what is to be done? This money must be
paid. Have you got it?"
The poor man looked blank.
"She will never be at ease till this money is paid," I insisted.
"Well, sir, I ain't got it, but I'll borrow it of someone; I'll go to
master, and ask him."
"No, my good fellow, that won't do. Your master would want to know what
you were going to do with it, perhaps; and we mustn't let more people know
about it than just ourselves and Squire Tresham. There is no occasion for
that. I'll tell you what: I'll give you the money, and you must take it;
or, if you like, I will take it to the squire, and tell him all about it.
Do you authorise me to do this, Mrs. Stokes?"
"Please, sir. It's very kind of you. I will work hard to pay you again, if
it please God to spare me. I am very sorry I was so cross-tempered to you,
sir; but I couldn't bear the disgrace of it."
She said all this from under the bed-clothes.
"Well, I'll go," I said; "and as soon as I've had my dinner I'll get a
horse and ride over to Squire Tresham's. I'll come back to-night and tell
you about it. And now I hope you will be able to thank God for forgiving
you this sin; but you must not hide and cover it up, but confess it clean
out to him, you know."
She made me no answer, but went on sobbing.
I hastened home, and as I entered sent Walter to ask the loan of a horse
which a gentleman, a neighbour, had placed at my disposal.
When I went into the dining-room, I found that they had not sat down to
dinner. I expostulated: it was against the rule of the house, when my
return was uncertain.
"But, my love," said my wife, "why should you not let us please ourselves
sometimes? Dinner is so much nicer when you are with us."
"I am very glad you think so," I answered. "But there are the children: it
is not good for growing creatures to be kept waiting for their meals."
"You see there are no children; they have had their dinner."
"Always in the right, wife; but there's Mr. Percivale."
"I never dine till seven o'clock, to save daylight," he said.
"Then I am beaten on all points. Let us dine."
During dinner I could scarcely help observing how Percivale's eyes followed
Wynnie, or, rather, every now and then settled down upon her face. That she
was aware, almost conscious of this, I could not doubt. One glance at her
satisfied me of that. But certain words of the apostle kept coming again
and again into my mind; for they were winged words those, and even when
they did not enter they fluttered their wings at my window: "Whatsoever is
not of faith is sin." And I kept reminding myself that I must heave the
load of sin off me, as I had been urging poor Mrs. Stokes to do; for God
was ever seeking to lift it, only he could not without my help, for that
would be to do me more harm than good by taking the one thing in which I
was like him away from me--my action. Therefore I must have faith in
him, and not be afraid; for surely all fear is sin, and one of the most
oppressive sins from which the Lord came to save us.
Before dinner was over the horse was at the door. I mounted, and set out
for Squire Tresham's.
I found him a rough but kind-hearted elderly man. When I told him the story
of the poor woman's misery, he was quite concerned at her suffering. When I
produced the sovereign he would not receive it at first, but requested me
to take it back to her and say she must keep it by way of an apology for
his rudeness about her ginger-beer; for I took care to tell him the whole
story, thinking it might be a lesson to him too. But I begged him to take
it; for it would, I thought, not only relieve her mind more thoroughly, but
help to keep her from coming to think lightly of the affair afterwards. Of
course I could not tell him that I had advanced the money, for that would
have quite prevented him from receiving it. I then got on my horse again,
and rode straight to the cottage.
"Well, Mrs. Stokes," I said, "it's all over now. That's one good thing
done. How do you feel yourself now?"
"I feel better now, sir. I hope God will forgive me."
"God does forgive you. But there are more things you need forgiveness for.
It is not enough to get rid of one sin. We must get rid of all our sins,
you know. They're not nice things, are they, to keep in our hearts? It is
just like shutting up nasty corrupting things, dead carcasses, under lock
and key, in our most secret drawers, as if they were precious jewels."
"I wish I could be good, like some people, but I wasn't made so. There's my
husband now. I do believe he never do anything wrong in his life. But then,
you see, he would let a child take him in."
"And far better too. Infinitely better to be taken in. Indeed there is no
harm in being taken in; but there is awful harm in taking in."
She did not reply, and I went on:
"I think you would feel a good deal better yet, if you would send for your
daughter and her husband now, and make it up with them, especially seeing
you are so ill."
"I will, sir. I will directly. I'm tired of having my own way. But I was
made so."
"You weren't made to continue so, at all events. God gives us the necessary
strength to resist what is bad in us. He is making at you now; only you
must give in, else he cannot get on with the making of you. I think very
likely he made you ill now, just that you might bethink yourself, and feel
that you had done wrong."
"I have been feeling that for many a year."
"That made it the more needful to make you ill; for you had been feeling
your duty, and yet not doing it; and that was worst of all. You know Jesus
came to lift the weight of our sins, our very sins themselves, off our
hearts, by forgiving them and helping us to cast them away from us.
Everything that makes you uncomfortable must have sin in it somewhere, and
he came to save you from it. Send for your daughter and her husband, and
when you have done that you will think of something else to set right
that's wrong."
"But there would be no end to that way of it, sir."
"Certainly not, till everything was put right."
"But a body might have nothing else to do, that way."
"Well, that's the very first thing that has to be done. It is our business
in this world. We were not sent here to have our own way and try to enjoy
ourselves."
"That is hard on a poor woman that has to work for her bread."
"To work for your bread is not to take your own way, for it is God's way.
But you have wanted many things your own way. Now, if you would just take
his way, you would find that he would take care you should enjoy your
life."
"I'm sure I haven't had much enjoyment in mine."
"That was just because you would not trust him with his own business, but
must take it into your hands. If you will but do his will, he will take
care that you have a life to be very glad of and very thankful for. And the
longer you live, the more blessed you will find it. But I must leave you
now, for I have talked to you long enough. You must try and get a sleep. I
will come and see you again to-morrow, if you like."
"Please do, sir; I shall be very grateful."
As I rode home I thought, if the lifting of one sin off the human heart was
like a resurrection, what would it be when every sin was lifted from every
heart! Every sin, then, discovered in one's own soul must be a pledge of
renewed bliss in its removing. And when the thought came again of what St.
Paul had said somewhere, "whatsoever is not of faith is sin," I thought
what a weight of sin had to be lifted from the earth, and how blessed it
might be. But what could I do for it? I could just begin with myself, and
pray God for that inward light which is his Spirit, that so I might see him
in everything and rejoice in everything as his gift, and then all things
would be holy, for whatsoever is of faith must be the opposite of sin; and
that was my part towards heaving the weight of sin, which, like myriads
of gravestones, was pressing the life out of us men, off the whole world.
Faith in God is life and righteousness--the faith that trusts so that it
will obey--none other. Lord, lift the people thou hast made into holy
obedience and thanksgiving, that they may be glad in this thy world.