CHAPTER XXI.
_THE PARSON'S PARABLE._
Mr. Wingfold went as he had come, thoughtful even to trouble. What was to
be done for the woman? What was his part, as parson of the parish, with
regard to her behaviour in church? Was it or was it not his part to take
public notice of what she intended, if not as a defiance to God, at least
as an open expression of her bitter resentment of his dealing with her?
The creator's discipline did not suit his creature's taste, and she would
let him know it: whether it suited her necessities, she did not ask or
care; she knew nothing of her necessities--only of her desires. Had she
had a suspicion that she was an eternal creature, poor as well as
miserable, blind and naked as well as bereaved and angry, she might have
allowed some room for God to show himself right. But she was ignorant of
herself as any savage. Was Wingfold to take her insolence in church as a
thing done to himself, which he must endure with patience? or, putting
himself out of the question, and regarding her conduct only as a protest
against the ways of God with her, must he leave reproof as well as
vengeance to the Lord? Was it his business, or was it not, to rebuke her,
and make his rebuke as open as her offence? It troubled him almost beyond
bearing to think that some of his flock might imagine that the great lady
of the parish was allowed to behave herself unseemly, where another would
be exposed to shame. But how abhorrent to him was a public contention in
the church, and on the Lord's day! Mrs. Wylder was just the woman to
challenge forcible expulsion, and make the circumstances of it as
flagrant as possible! She might even use both pistol and whip! What
better opportunity could she find for giving point to her appeal against
God! A man might, in the rage of disappointment, cry out that there could
be no God where baffle met the holiest instinct--that blundering chance
must rule; he might, illogical with grief, declare that as God could
treat him so, he would believe in him no longer; or he might assert that
an evil being, not a good, was at the heart of life--a devil and not a
God, for he was one who created and forgot, or who remembered and did not
care--who quickened exposure but gave no shield! called from the void a
being filled with doorless avenues to pain, and abandoned him to
incarnate cruelty, that he might make him sport with the wildness of his
dismay! but here was a woman who did not say that God was not, or that he
was not good, but with passionate self-party-spirit cried out, "He is
against me! he sides with my husband! He is not my friend, but his: I
will let him know how I resent his unfairness!" Whether God was good or
bad she did not care--that was not a point she was concerned in; all she
heeded was how he behaved to her--whether he took part with her husband
or herself. He had torn from her the desire of her heart and left her
desolate: she would worship him no longer! She had been brought up to
believe there was a God, and had never doubted his existence: with her
whole will and passion she opposed that which she called God. She had
never learned to yield when wrong, and now she was sure she was right.
Though hopeless she resisted. She cried out against God, but believed him
by his own act helpless to deliver her, for what could he do against the
grave? Powerless for her as unfriendly toward her, why should she worship
him? Why should she pay court to one who neither would nor could give her
what she wanted? What was he God for? Was _she_ to go to his house, and
carry herself courteously, as if he were her friend! She would not! And
that there might be no mistake as to how she regarded him, she would sit
in her pew and read her novel, while the friends of God said their
prayers to him! If she annoyed them, so much the better, for the surer
she might hope that _he_ was annoyed!
It may seem to some incredibly terrible that one should believe in God
and defy him! But do none of us, who say also we believe in God, and who
are far from defying him, ever behave like Mrs. Wylder? It is one thing
to believe in a God; it is quite another to believe in God! Every time we
grumble at our fate, every time we are displeased, hurt, resentful at
this or that which comes to us, every time we do not receive the
suffering sent us, "with both hands," as William Law says, we are of the
same spirit with this half-crazy woman. In some fashion, and that a real
one, she must have believed in the God against whom she urged her
complaint; and it is rather to her praise that, like Job, she did it
openly, and not with mere base grumblings in her heart at her fireside.
It is mean to believe half-way, to believe in words, and in action deny.
One of four gates stands open to us: to deny the existence of God, and
say we can do without him; to acknowledge his existence, but say he is
not good, and act as true men resisting a tyrant; to say, "I would there
were a God," and be miserable because there is none; or to say there must
be a God, and he must be perfect in goodness or he could not be, and give
ourselves up to him heart and soul and hands and history.
But what was parson Wingfold to do in the matter? Was he to allow the
simple sheep of his flock to think him afraid of the squire's lady? or
was he to venture an uproar in the church on a Sunday morning? His wife
and he had often talked the thing over, but had arrived at no conclusion.
He went to her now, and told her all that had passed.
"Isn't it time to do something?" she said.
"Indeed I think so--but what?" he answered. "I wish you would show me
what I ought to do! Let me see it, and I will do it." She was silent for
a moment.
"Couldn't you preach at her?" she said, with a laugh in which was an odd
mingling of doubt and merriment.
"I have always thought that a mean thing, and have never done it--except
by dwelling on broadest principles. That an evil principle has an
advocate present, is no reason for sparing it: what am I there for? But
to preach that the many may turn on the one--that I never could do!"
"This case is different from any other. The wrong is done continuously,
in the very eyes of the congregation, and for the sake of its being
seen," Mrs. Wingfold answered. "Neither would you be the assailant; you
would but accept, not give the challenge. For I don't know how many
Sundays, she has been pitting her position in the pew against yours in
the pulpit! Believing it out of your power to do anything, she flaunts
her French novel in your face; and those that can't see her, see her
yellow novel in your eyes, and think about her and you, instead of the
things you are saying to them! For the sake of the work given you, for
the sake of your influence with the people, you must do something!"
"It is God she defies, not me."
"I think she defies you to say an honest word on his behalf. Your silence
must seem to her an acknowledgment that she is right."
"That cannot be, after what I have said to her more than once in her own
house."
"Then at least she must think that either you have no authority to drive
from the little temple one of the cows of Bashan, or are afraid of her
horns."
"Quite right, Nelly!" cried the rector; "you are quite right. Only you
don't give me a hint what to do!"
"Am I not saying as plain as I can that you must preach at her?"
"H'm! I didn't expect that of you!"
"No; for if you could have expected it of me, you would have thought of
it yourself! But just think! A public scandal requires public treatment.
You will not be dragging her before the people; she has put herself
there! She is brazen, and must be treated as brazen--set in the full
glare of opinion. And I think, if I were a clergyman, I should know how
to do it!"
Wingfold was silent. She must be right! Something glimmered before
him--something possible--he could not see plainly what.
"It is all very well to make such a clamour about her boy," continued his
wife, "but every one knows that she quarrelled with him dreadfully--that
for days at a time they would be cat and dog with each other. Her animal
instinct lasted it out, and she did not come to hate him; but I can't
help thinking it must have been in a great measure because her husband
favoured the other that she took up this one with such passion. I have
been told she would abuse him in language not fit to repeat, the little
wretch answering her back, and choking with rage that he could not tear
her."
"Who told you?" asked the parson.
"I would rather not say."
"Are you sure it is not mere gossip?"
"Quite sure. To be gossip, a thing must go through two mouths at least,
and I had it first-mouth. I tell it you because I think it worth your
knowing."
The next Sunday morning, there lay the lady as usual, only her novel was
a red one. When the parson went into the pulpit, he cast one glance on
the gallery to his right, then spoke thus:--
"My friends, I will follow the example of our Lord, and speak to you
to-day in a parable. The Lord said there are things better spoken in
parables, because of the eyes that will not see, and the ears that will
not hear.
"There was once a mother left alone with her little boy--the only
creature in the world or out of it that she cared for. She was a good
mother to him, as good a mother as you can think, never overbearing or
unkind. She never thought of herself, but always of the desire of her
heart, the apple of her eye, her son born of her own body. It was not
because of any return he could make her that she loved him. It was not to
make him feel how good she was, that she did everything for him. It was
not to give him reasons for loving _her_, but because she loved _him_,
and because he needed her. He was a delicate child, requiring every care
she could lavish upon him, and she did lavish it. Oh, how she loved him!
She would sit with the child on her lap from morning till night, gazing
on him; she always went to sleep with him in her bosom--as close to her
as ever he could lie. When she woke in the dark night, her first movement
was to strain him closer, her next to listen if he was breathing--for he
might have died and been lost! When he looked up at her with eyes of
satisfaction, she felt all her care repaid.
"The years went on, and the child grew, and the mother loved him more and
more. But he did not love her as she loved him. He soon began to care for
the things she gave him, but he did not learn to love the mother who gave
them. Now the whole good of things is to be the messengers of love--to
carry love from the one heart to the other heart; and when these
messengers are fetched instead of sent, grasped at, that is, by a greedy,
ungiving hand, they never reach the heart, but block up the path of love,
and divide heart from heart; so that the greedy heart forgets the love of
the giving heart more and more, and all by the things it gives. That is
the way generosity fares with the ungenerous. The boy would be very
pleasant to his mother so long as he thought to get something from her;
but when he had got what he wanted, he would forget her until he wanted
something more.
"There came at last a day when she said to him, 'Dear boy, I want you to
go and fetch me some medicine, for I feel very poorly, and am afraid I am
going to be ill!' He mounted his pony, and rode away to get the medicine.
Now his mother had told him to be very careful, because the medicine was
dangerous, and he must not open the bottle that held it. But when he had
it, he said to himself, 'I dare say it is something very nice, and mother
does not want me to have any of it!' So he opened the bottle and tasted
what was in it, and it burned him terribly. Then he was furious with his
mother, and said she had told him not to open the bottle just to make him
do it, and vowed he would not go back to her! He threw the bottle from
him, and turned, and rode another way, until he found himself alone in a
wild forest, where was nothing to eat, and nothing to shelter him from
the cold night, and the wind that blew through the trees, and made
strange noises. He dismounted, afraid to ride in the dark, and before he
knew, his pony was gone. Then he began to be miserably frightened, and to
wish he had not run away. But still he blamed his mother, who might have
known, he said, that he would open the bottle.
"The mother got very uneasy about her boy, and went out to look for him.
The neighbours too, though he was not a nice boy, and none but his mother
liked him, went out also, for they would gladly find him and take him
home to her; and they came at last to the wood, with their torches and
lanterns.
"The boy was lying under a tree, and saw the lights, and heard the
voices, and knew it was his mother come. Then the old wickedness rose up
fresh in his heart, and he said to himself: 'She shall have trouble yet
before she finds me! Am I to come and go as she pleases!' He lay very
still; and when he saw them coming near, crept farther, and again lay
still. Thus he went on doing, and so avoided his saviours. He heard one
say there were wolves in the wood, for that was the sound of them; but he
was just the kind of boy that will not believe, but thinks every one has
a purpose of his own in saying this or that. So he slipped and slipped
away until at length all despaired of finding him, and left the wood.
"Suddenly he knew that he was again alone. He gave a great shriek, but no
one heard it. He stood quaking and listening. Presently his pony came
rushing past him, with two or three wolves behind him. He started to his
feet and began to run, wild to get out of the wood. But he could not find
the way, and ran about this way and that until utter despair came down
upon him, and all he could do was to lie still as a mouse lest the wolves
should hear him.
"And as he lay he began at last to think that he was a wicked child; that
his mother had done everything to make him good, and he would not be
good; and now he was lost, and the wolves alone would find him! He sank
at last into a stupor, and lay motionless, with death and the wolves
after him.
"He came to himself in the arms of a strange woman, who had taken him up,
and was carrying him home.
"The name of the woman was Sorrow--a wandering woman, a kind of gypsy,
always going about the world, and picking up lost things. Nobody likes
her, hardly anybody is civil to her; but when she has set anybody down
and is gone, there is often a look of affection and wonder and gratitude
sent after her. For all that, however, very few are glad to be found by
her again.
"Sorrow carried him weeping home to his mother. His mother came out, and
took him in her arms. Sorrow made her courtesy, and went away. The boy
clung to his mother's neck, and said he was sorry. In the midst of her
joy his mother wept bitterly, for he had nearly broken her heart. She
could not get the wolves out of her mind.
"But, alas! the boy forgot all, and was worse than ever. He grew more and
more cruel to his mother, and mocked at every word she said to him; so
that--"
There came a cry from the gallery. The congregation started in sudden
terror to their feet. The rector stopped, and turning to the right, stood
gazing. In the front of the squire's pew stood Mrs. Wylder, white, and
speechless with rage. For a moment she stood shaking her fist at the
preacher. Then, in a hoarse broken voice, came the words--
"It's a lie. My boy was never cruel to me. It's a wicked lie."
She could say no more, but stood and glared, hate in her fierce eyes, and
torture in her colourless face.
"Madam, you have betrayed yourself," said the rector solemnly. "If your
son behaved well to you, it makes it the worse in you to behave ill to
your Father. From Sunday to Sunday you insult him with rude behaviour. I
tell you so in the face of this congregation, which knows it as well as
I. Hitherto I have held my tongue--from no fear of the rich, from no
desire to spare them deserved disgrace in the eyes of the poor, but
because I shrank from making the house of God a place of contention.
Madam, you have behaved shamefully, and I do my duty in rebuking you."
The whole congregation were on their feet, staring at her. A moment she
stood, and would have brazened out the stare. But she felt the eyes of
the motionless hundreds blazing upon her, and the culprit soul grew naked
in the presence of judging souls. Her nerve gave way; she turned her
back, left the pew, and fled from the church by the squire's door, into
the grounds of Wylder Hall.
Happily Barbara was not in the church that morning.
The next Sunday the squire's pew was empty. The red volume lay open on
its face upon the floor of it.
Wingfold's dear plot had palled. He had rough-hewed his end, but the
divinity had shaped it. When the squire came to know what had taken
place, he made his first call on the rector. He said nothing about his
wife, but plainly wished it understood that he bore him no ill will for
what he had done.
