The Pest 26

The Pest 26

In the efficacy of prayer he had absolute faith, and consternation had

assailed him when he found that prayer brought no relief to his agony or

solution of his difficulty. He had asked for guidance, and God had not

granted him any. Heretofore prayer had always brought him peace; not

realizing that he had never before been in distress or difficulty, it

shocked, then stunned him, that no response apparently was to be made to

his faithful pleading for assistance. It is said that the extreme terror

caused by an earthquake arises from the failure of the one last resort

of safety when all else is crumbling, by the trembling, the shattering

beneath the feet of the solid earth itself; when that fails no refuge is

left. It was thus with Squire now; misery might be his lot, but not

terror at any disaster or misfortune, for “God’s in His heaven, all’s

right with the world”—that had been his faith. But was God in His

heaven? He had raised his voice to heaven and had prayed for succor, but

there had been no answer: had God forgotten him? There was no sense of

rebellion or of protest in his heart, only piteous helplessness and

loneliness. His spiritual pride had died; humility had taken its place,

but mingled with it was an almost insane dread that unwittingly he had

sinned so heinously that God had cast him away. As he had knelt this

morning, words of prayer had refused to come. He had striven to say “Our

Father Which art in Heaven,” but his trembling lips had stumbled; in

agony he had buried his face in his hands and wept.

 

There was a friend whom more than once he had thought of consulting, but

a sense of shame had restrained him. Now in this crisis of his affairs,

he felt that no other course lay open to him, and that if it was in any

way possible he should act upon whatsoever advice should be given him.

 

He wrapped himself in his heavy mackintosh, pressed down his soft felt

hat closely, and set out to walk toward Dulwich through the wind and the

rain. The raw air at first chilled then stimulated him and he made his

way along rapidly. Gradually the ferment in his mind was allayed, and

when he arrived in sight of his friend’s house, he almost hesitated as

to going in; the physical exercise seemed to have cleared his mental

horizon. But the half-hesitation brought back the feeling of

helplessness from which he was trying to escape and he hurried on.

 

“Why, Edward! You! It’s an age since you came my way; I thought you’d

forgotten me. Give the girl your things—so—come along in here and warm

yourself by the fire. You don’t know how glad I am to see you.

But—you’re not looking well, though you’ve got a color.”

 

The speaker was a middle-aged, thin little woman, with a sharp face,

stamped deeply by the hand of pain, with deep-set, kindly gray eyes and

a mouth that seemed formed so as to be able to give utterance only to

words of kindness or of consolation.

 

She sat down opposite him.

 

“Aren’t you well, Edward?”

 

“Yes, yes, thank you, I’m quite well in body. I see—you haven’t heard?”

 

“Heard? Marian’s all well, I hope?”

 

He did not answer, and after a searching look at him, she went on:

 

“She’s not ill? If she is, why _didn’t_ you send for me, or come for

me?”

 

“No, no, no, it’s not that,” he broke in, vehemently; “it’s something

far worse than that. I scarcely know how to tell you. She’s—gone

away—away from me.”

 

“Gone away? What do you mean, Edward?”

 

“We weren’t happy together; at least, she wasn’t happy; she went away

and she’s living a life of sin with another man. Oh, what am I to do?”

 

“This is terrible. My poor boy, my poor boy.”

 

She went quietly over to him, and putting her arm round his shoulder,

drew his head gently to her. Then his pent-up suffering broke its bonds,

and he sobbed bitterly as he rested there, near that kind heart to which

no one in sorrow had ever appealed in vain.

 

“My poor boy, why didn’t you come to me sooner?—instead of fighting it

out all alone, though not alone, for I know you have faith in the great

Comforter.”

 

He held her hand tightly as he began, at first brokenly, to tell her all

that had happened. She knit her brows as she listened, and when he

ceased speaking, drew her hand gently from him, and drew back.

 

“What am I to do?” he repeated.

 

“Let me think a minute. But first, Edward, let us pray.”

 

They kneeled down side by side at the table, and she prayed simply,

uttering the petition of a helpless child to her Father, asking that

this sorely-tried man and herself, his weak friend, might be guided

rightly in all they should do and that the way might be made plain to

them. The words brought comfort to him.

 

“Now, Edward,” she said, “I know you do not expect me to say anything

except exactly what I believe to be true. I did not often see you and

Marian together, but I sometimes wondered if in your own strength you

did not sometimes fail to make allowances for her weakness.”

 

“I’ve tried to see my own faults. I’ve no doubt I am much to blame. But

does the knowledge of that help me now? It would help me if I could

bring Marian back to me—but it’s not that which has made me come to you

for advice. What am I to _do_? Am I to go down to Rottingdean, see

Marian and make another appeal to her? And if I do and if I fail—am I

to try again and again? To do that means that I should be neglecting my

work. Don’t you see?”

 

He then went on to tell her, what he had not yet mentioned, of the

horrible terror that had struck him when he found that God, as he

believed, was deaf to his prayers.

 

“Now,” he said—“now you understand all. Can you help me?”

 

“I don’t know. One thing I know we must do if we are to help her. We

must try to forget all about you and to put ourselves in her place as

far as we can. Strangely enough, I fancy perhaps I can do that better

than you could. I know you better than you know yourself and so can

possibly see you more as she sees you; then I’m a woman and so, though I

don’t know half as much about her as you do, it’s more than likely that

I understand her a great deal better. You say she changed greatly, after

you had been some time in town, from what she had been in the country?”

 

“Yes, yes; she seemed to me to become utterly different.”

 

“Just so. But of course she didn’t change at all—she only found

herself. She had been simply an artificial, vicarage-bred girl; she

became a woman. She never did anything very wrong at the vicarage—there

wasn’t any temptation. In town she picked up some of the fruit of the

tree and began to nibble at it and found it sweet. She never really

loved you—I’m sorry, but I must hurt you if I’m to help you—it wasn’t

till she came up here that she realized that she was a woman; she had no

love for you, no interest in the life you set before her, no faith; she

is young, beautiful, full of life and energy and strong emotions—so far

all’s simple enough. But what further? Is she really wicked or only a

sinner? If she’s really through and through bad, I know no power on

earth can help her or save her. If she’s only a sinner she will save

herself. At any rate what _can_ you do or say that you haven’t tried?

She knows you love her and would forgive her—I don’t see, Edward, what

can be gained by your going down to Rottingdean. I daresay you think I’m

talking hardly, but I’m not. I’m only being practical, and there’s no

reason I’ve ever heard of why one shouldn’t be truly religious at the

same time. God doesn’t love fools.”

 

“Perhaps that’s why He doesn’t love me.”

 

She did not answer, but for a moment a smile hovered at the corners of

her mouth.

 

“You good people are so very difficult to help,” she went on; “you’re

always so utterly other-worldish that when you’ve got to worry out some

worldly trouble you don’t know what on earth to do, and that being the

case—pray for help, instead of for strength to help yourself. What to

do? It seems to me your way is plain: go back to your work; work hard;

work yourself sick if you like, and instead of praying so much for

yourself, pray more for her.”

 

He turned away from her, and looked out at the gray rain. She had spoken

almost sharply, but the soft tenderness in her eyes as she looked

pityingly at him betrayed that the sharpness lay only in the __EXPRESSION__

of the comfort she had offered him.

 

“I feel that you are right,” he said, going back to her and holding out

his hands, into which she gave hers; “thank you. I’ll try.”