My own helplessness was terrible, helplessness to undo the evil, helplessness to meet it, helplessness to guard myself, helplessness to forgive. I seemed to be hedged round on every side.
"Forgive her! Oh never!" I found myself murmuring.
And suddenly I seemed to see that sad Denial-Scene, when one whom the Master loved turned against Him, in cowardly wise abjuring His Name. And I saw in response, no anger, no bitterness, no contempt; only one gentle Look from those wonderful loving Eyes, so grave and sweet, pleading and true, reproachful yet pitying, humanly sorrowful, Royally calm.
What has she done to me, compared with that which the craven disciple did to Him that day? More!—In what has she wronged me, compared with all the wronging of my coldness, heartlessness, ingratitude, towards Him—my Master and King? For I have not loved her,—I have not trusted her,—I have not given up aught for her sake! And what has not He done and endured for me?
The debt of one hundred pence indeed, beside the debt of ten thousand pounds! If He resented my ill-doings as I have resented hers, where should I be?
I think the look which softened St. Peter came to me too, in that hour on the lonely hillside. Perhaps there was the touch as well,—His Hand removing the bitterness, the wrath, the angry contempt; not taking away the pain, but rather laying it upon me anew, as something to be patiently endured for Him; and with it giving His peace.
Had I not only that morning pleaded to have His will worked in me, avowing myself submissive? And if this were His will?
It was not—is not—for me to choose. Just because this trouble so fiercely racks my pride, it may be the very burden I most need.
And, after all, I might have misjudged her. This thought came next. She might not have meant to look,—might have gone to the drawer for something, have moved my papers accidentally, have even thrown the book open by some awkward movement and have shut the page, unread.
If she did read,—then, dishonourable, base, contemptible, are not terms too strong for the deed. But yet I have not to judge her. To her own Master she standeth or falleth. Have I always acted towards my loving Lord with perfect honour, perfect courtesy, perfect thoughtfulness, perfect delicacy? And has He not forgiven me? Oh, times without number!