The Seaboard Parish, Complete

“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.

CHAPTER VI. THE GATHERING STORM

The weather cleared up again the next day, and for a fortnight it was lovely. In this region we saw less of the sadness of the dying year than in our own parish, for there being so few trees in the vicinity of the ocean, the autumn had nowhere to hang out her mourning flags. But there, indeed, so mild is the air, and so equable the temperature all the winter through, compared with the inland counties, that the bitterness of the season is almost unknown. This, however, is no guarantee against furious storms of wind and rain.

Not long after the occurrence last recorded, Turner paid us another visit. I confess I was a little surprised at his being able to get away so soon again; for of all men a country surgeon can least easily find time for a holiday; but he had managed it, and I had no doubt, from what I knew of him, had made thorough provision for his cure in his absence.

He brought us good news from home. Everything was going on well. Weir was working as hard as usual; and everybody agreed that I could not have got a man to take my place better.

He said he found Connie much improved; and, from my own observations, I was sure he was right. She was now able to turn a good way from one side to the other, and finding her health so steady besides, Turner encouraged her in making gentle and frequent use of her strength, impressing it upon her, however, that everything depended on avoiding everything like a jerk or twist of any sort. I was with them when he said this. She looked up at him with a happy smile.

“I will do all I can, Mr. Turner,” she said, “to get out of people’s way as soon as possible.”

Perhaps she saw something in our faces that made her add—

“I know you don’t mind the bother I am; but I do. I want to help, and not be helped—more than other people—as soon as possible. I will therefore be as gentle as mamma and as brave as papa, and see if we don’t get well, Mr. Turner. I mean to have a ride on old Spry next summer.—I do,” she added, nodding her pretty head up from the pillow, when she saw the glance the doctor and I exchanged. “Look here,” she went on, poking the eider-down quilt up with her foot.

“Magnificent!” said Turner; “but mind, you must do nothing out of bravado. That won’t do at all.”

“I have done,” said Connie, putting on a face of mock submission.

That day we carried her out for a few minutes, but hardly laid her down, for we were afraid of the damp from the earth. A few feet nearer or farther from the soil will make a difference. It was the last time for many weeks. Anyone interested in my Connie need not be alarmed: it was only because of the weather, not because of her health.