The Seaboard Parish, Complete

“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 he 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.”