A SELF-IMPOSED EXPIATION
"Man-like is it to fall into sin,
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein,
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve,
God-like is it all sin to leave."
--Friedrich von Logau.
David's welcome home was quiet, cordial and heartfelt. The Quaker life
is calm; storms seldom appear on its surface, even though they must
sometimes agitate its depths; mind and heart are brought under
remarkable control; sympathy and charity are extended to the erring;
hospitality is a duty and an instinct; domestic love is deep and
powerful.
When David had frankly told his story, he was permitted to resume his
place in the life of the old homestead as if nothing had happened. He
expressed to his brother and sister his love for Pepeeta, and his
determination to make her his wife in lawful marriage.
They assented to his plans, and at the earliest possible moment the
minister and elders of the little congregation of Friends were asked to
meet, in accordance with their custom, to "confer with him about a
concern which was on his mind."
They came, and heard his story and his intention, told with
straightforward simplicity. They, too, touched with sympathy and moved
to confidence, agreed that there was no obstacle to the union. The date
of the wedding was placed at the end of the month, which, by their
ecclesiastical law, must elapse after this avowal, and an evening
meeting was appointed for the ceremony.
In the meantime David remained quietly at home, and took up his old
labors as nearly as possible where he had laid them down. Such a life as
he had been leading induces a distaste for manual labor, and sometimes
he chafed against it. Again and again he felt his spirit faint within
him when he recalled the scenes of excitement through which he had
passed, and looked forward to years of this unvaried drudgery; but he
never permitted his soul to question his duty! He had decided in the
most solemn reflections of his life that he would conquer himself in the
place where he had been defeated, perform the tasks which he had so
ignominiously abandoned, and then, when he had demonstrated his power to
live a true life himself, devote his strength to helping others.
The charms of this pastoral existence gradually came to his support in
his heroic resolution. The unbroken quiet of the happy valley which had
irritated him at first, grew to be more and more a balm to his wounded
spirit. The society of the animal world lent its gracious consolation;
the great horses, the ponderous oxen, the doves fluttering and cooing
about the barnyard, the suckling calves, the playful colts, all came to
him as to a friend, and in giving him their confidence and affection
awakened his own.
Above all Pepeeta was ever near him. It was no wonder that her beauty
threw its spell over David's spirit. It had been enhanced by sorrow, for
the human countenance, like the landscape, requires shadow as well as
sunshine to perfect its charms. But the burst of sunshine which had come
with David's return had brought it a final consummation which
transfigured even the Quaker dress she had adopted. Her bonnet would
never stay over her face but fell back on her shoulders, her animated
countenance emerging from this envelope like the bud of a rose from its
sheath. She was as a butterfly at that critical instant when it is ready
to leave its chrysalis and take wing. She was a soul enmeshed in an
ethereal body, rather than a body which ensheathed a soul.
Quietly and sedately the lovers met each other at the table, or at the
spring, or at the milking.
And when the labors of the day had ended, they sat beneath the spreading
hackberry trees, or wandered through the garden, or down the winding
lane to the meadow, and reviewed the past with sadness or looked forward
to the future with a chastened joy. Their spirits were subdued and
softened, their love took on a holy rather than a passionate cast, they
felt themselves beneath the shadow of an awful crime, and again and
again when they grew joyous and almost gay they were checked by the
irrepressible apprehension that out from under the silently revolving
wheels of judgment some other punishment would roll.
Tenderly as they loved each other, and sweet as was that love, they
could not always be happy with such a past behind them! In proportion to
the soul's real grandeur it must suffer over its own imperfections. This
suffering is remorse. In proud and gloomy hearts which tell their
secrets only to their own pillows, its tears are poison and its rebukes
the thrust of daggers. But in those which, like theirs, are gentle and
tender by nature, remorseful tears are drops of penitential dew. David
and Pepeeta suffered, but their suffering was curative, for pure love is
like a fountain; by its incessant gushing from the heart it clarifies
the most turbid streams of thought or emotion. Each week witnessed a
perceptible advance in peace, in rest, in quiet happiness, and at last
the night of their marriage arrived, and they went together to the
meeting house.
The people gathered as they did at that other service when David made
the address to which Pepeeta had listened with such astonishment and
rapture. The entire community of Friends was there, for even Quakers
cannot entirely repress their curiosity. There was evidence of deep
feeling and even of suppressed excitement. The men in their
broad-brimmed hats, the women in their poke bonnets, moved with an
almost unseemly rapidity through the evening shadows. The pairs and
groups conversed in rapid, eager whispers. They did not linger outside
the door, but entered hastily and took their places as if some great
event were about to happen.
There was a preliminary service of worship, and according to custom,
opportunity was given for prayer or exhortation. But all minds were too
intent upon what was to follow to enable them to take part with spirit.
The silences were frequent and tedious. The young people moved
restlessly on their seats, and their elders rebuked them with silent
glances of disapproval. All were in haste, but nothing can really upset
the gravity of these calm and tranquil people, and it was not until
after a suitable time had elapsed that the leader of the meeting arose
and said: "The time has arrived when David and Pepeeta are at liberty to
proceed with their marriage, unless there be some one who can show just
cause why this rite should not be solemnized."
A flutter ran through the assembly, and a moment of waiting ensued; then
David rose, while every eye was fixed on him.
"My friends," he said, in a voice whose gentleness and sweetness stirred
their hearts; "you have refrained from inquiring into the story of my
life during the three years of my absence. I would be glad if I could
withhold it from your knowledge; but I feel that I must make a
confession of my sins."
In the death-like stillness he began. The narrative was in itself
dramatic, but the deep feeling of him who told it, his natural oratory
and the hearers' intent interest, lent to it a fascination that at
times became almost unendurable. Sighs were often heard, tears were
furtively wiped away, criticism was disarmed, and the tenderness of this
illicit but passionate and determined love, blinded even those calm and
righteous listeners to its darker and more desperate phases. By an
almost infallible instinct we discover true love amid fictitious,
unworthy and evil elements; and when seen there is something so
sublimely beautiful that we prostrate ourselves before it and believe
against evidence, even, that sooner or later it will ennoble and
consecrate those who feel it.
When David had completed the narrative he continued as follows: "It is
now necessary that I should convince you, if I can, that with my whole
soul I have repented of this evil that I have done, and that I have
sought, and I hope obtained, pardon for what is irreparable, and am
determined to undo what I can. It is with awe and gratitude, my friends,
that I acknowledge the aid of heaven. From the logical and well-deserved
consequences of this sin I did not escape alone! I was snatched from it
like a brand from the burning! No mortal-mind could have planned or
executed my salvation. It is marked by evidences of Divine power and
wisdom. Through a series of experiences almost too strange to be
credible, I have been drawn back here to the scenes of my childhood, to
encounter the one I have wronged and to find myself, so far as I know,
able not only to make reparation, but to enjoy the bliss of a love of
which I am unworthy. If I were wise enough, I would set before you the
spiritual meaning of this terrible experience, but I am not. Three years
ago I stood here in boyish confidence and boldly expounded the mysteries
of our human life. It is only when we know nothing of life that we feel
able to interpret it! Now that I have seen it, tasted it, drunk the cup
almost to the dregs--I am speechless. Three facts, however, stand out
before my vision--sin, punishment, pardon! I have sinned; I have
suffered; I have been forgiven. I have been fully pardoned, but I feel
that I have not been fully punished! There are issues of such an
experience as this that cannot be brought to light in a day, a year,
perhaps not in a lifetime. Whatever they are, I must await them and meet
them; but as it is permitted a man to know his own mind, when he is
determined so to do, I know that I have turned upon this sin with
loathing! I know that I am ready to take up my burden where I left it
years ago. I know that I would do anything to atone for the evil which I
have wrought to others. I mean, if it seem good to you, here and now to
claim as my bride her into whose life I have brought a world of sorrow.
I mean, if God permits me, to live quietly and patiently among you until
I have so recruited my spiritual strength that I can go forth into the
great world of sorrow and of sin which I have seen, and extend to others
a hand of helpfulness such as was stretched out to me at the moment of
my need; but if there is any one here to whom God has given a message
for me, whether it be to approve or condemn my course, I trust that I
shall have grace to receive it meekly."
He took his seat, and it seemed for a few moments that every person in
the room had yielded heart and judgment to this noble and modest appeal.
But there was among them one whose stern and unyielding sense of justice
had not been appeased. He was a man who had often suffered for
righteousness sake and who attached more value to the testimony of a
clear conscience than to any earthly dignity. He slowly and solemnly
rose. His form was like that of a prophet of ancient days. His deep-set
eyes glowed like two bright stars under the cloudy edge of his
broad-brimmed hat. His face was emaciated with a self-denial that
bordered upon asceticism, and wan with ceaseless contemplations of the
problems of life, death and immortality. Not a trace of tender emotion
was evident on features, which might have been carved in marble. It was
impossible to conceive that he had ever been young, and there seemed a
bitter irony in the effort of such a man to judge the cause of a love
like that which pleaded for satisfaction in the hearts of David and
Pepeeta, and to pronounce upon the destinies of those whose souls were
still throbbing with passion.
But such was the purpose of the man. His first words sounded on the
stillness like an alarm bell and shook the souls of listeners with a
sort of terror.
"We did not seek to try this cause," he said. "It was brought before us
by the wish of this sinful man himself. But if we must judge, let us
judge like God! We read of Him--that he 'lays righteousness to the line
and judgment to the plummet.' Let us do the same. That a great wrong
hath been done is evident to every mind. It is not meet that such wrongs
should go unpunished! These two transgressors have suffered; but who
believes that such wrongs may justly be so soon followed by felicity? It
would be an encouragement to evil-doers and a premium upon vice! Who
would refrain from violently rending the marriage bonds or sundering any
sacred tie, if in a few short months the fruit of the guilty deed might
be eaten in peace by the culprit? What assurance may we have that the
lesson which has been but superficially graven on this guilty heart may
not be obliterated in the enjoyment of triumph? Why should these youths
make such unseemly haste? If they are indeed in earnest to seek the
truth and lay to heart the meaning of this experience into which their
sinful hearts have led them, let them of their own accord and out of
their humble and contrite hearts devote a year to meditation and prayer.
Let them show to others they have learned that to live righteously and
soberly, and not to grasp ill-gotten gains or enjoy unhallowed
pleasures, is the chief end of human life! The hour is ripe for such a
demonstration. We have seen other evidences among us of an unholy
hungering after the unlawful pleasures of life. It is time that a halt
were called. If this community is dedicated to righteousness, then let
us exalt the standard. It is at critical moments like this that history
is made and character formed. If we weaken now, if we permit our hearts
to overpower our consciences, God will smite us with His wrath, vice
will rush upon us like a flood, and we shall be given over to the lust
of the flesh and the pride of life! 'To the law and to the testimony, my
brethren.'"
With his long arm extended and his deep-set eyes glowing, he repeated
from memory the solemn words:
"'Behold ye trust in lying words that cannot profit. Will ye steal,
murder and commit adultery and swear falsely, and burn incense to Baal,
and walk after other gods whom ye know not, and come and stand before me
in this house which is called by my name and say, "We are delivered to
do all these abominations?" Is this house which is called by my name,
become a den of robbers in your eyes? Behold, even I have said it, saith
the Lord. But go ye now into my place which was Shiloh, where I set my
name at the first, and see what I did to it for the wickedness of my
people Israel! And now because ye have done all these works, saith the
Lord--and I spake unto you (rising up early and speaking), but ye heard
not, and I called you but ye answered not--therefore will I do unto
this house which is called by my name (wherein ye trust) and unto the
place which I gave unto you and your fathers, as I have done to Shiloh!
And I will cast you out of my sight--even the whole people of Ephraim!
Therefore pray not thou for this people, neither lift up cry nor prayers
for them, neither make intercession to me--for I will not hear thee!'
* * * * *
"This is my message! This is the advice ye have invited! Wait a year!
Watch and pray! Fit yourselves for the enjoyment of your love by
repentance."
The impression made by these solemn words was tremendous. It was as if
eternity had suddenly dawned in that dim-lit room, and the leaves of the
book of doom had been opened.
There had been stillness before, but now there was the silence of the
grave, and at this dramatic moment one of the tallow candles whose
feeble light had served but to render the darkness visible, spluttered,
went out, and intensified the silence with a meaningless and
exasperating sound. No one knew how to break the spell which these
intense and terrible words had cast over them. Their limbs and faculties
were both benumbed.
Upon Pepeeta this message had fallen like a thunderbolt. Her Oriental
imagination, her awakened conscience, her throbbing heart had all been
thrilled. She did not move; her eyes were still fixed on the prophet;
her face was white; her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.
David leaned forward in his seat and listened like a culprit hearing
sentence from a judge. Those who were closely observing his noble
countenance saw it suddenly light up with the glow of a spiritual
ecstasy, and rightly conjectured that he was burning with the zeal of
martyrdom. He saw his way, for the first time, to a worthy expiation of
his sin. The prophet had interpreted the purpose of God and pointed out
the path of duty. He started to his feet, but at the same instant over
in the corner of the room rose the figure of a man whose full form,
benignant countenance and benevolent manner afforded the most marked
contrast to that of the Jeremiah who had electrified them by his appeal
to righteousness.
He moved toward one of the half dozen candles which were still burning,
and stood within the narrow circle of its feeble rays. Drawing from the
inner pocket of his coat a well-worn volume he opened it, held it up to
the light and began to read. The tones of his voice were clear and
mellifluous, his articulation slow and distinct, and his soul seemed
permeated with the wondrous depth and beauty of what is perhaps the most
exquisite passage in the literature of the world. It was the story of
the prodigal son.
As he proceeded, and that brief but perfect drama unfolded itself before
the imagination of his hearers, it was as if they had never heard it
before, or at least as if its profound import had never been revealed
to their dull minds. Intimations and suggestions which had never been
disclosed to them came out like lines written in sensitive ink, under
the influence of light and heat. The living medium through which they
were uttered seemed slowly to melt away, and as in a dissolving view,
the sublime teacher, the humble Galilean stood before them, and they
heard his voice! The last words died away; the reader took his seat
without uttering a single comment. Not a person moved.
Each heart in that silent room was thrilled with emotions which were
common to all. But there was one which had a burden all its own.
The demure Quaker maiden who had looked love out of her dove-like eyes
three years ago when Pepeeta appeared for the first time among these
quiet folk, was in her old familiar seat. Her life had never been the
same since that hour, for the man whom she loved with all the deep
intensity of which a heart so young, so pure, so true was capable, had
been suddenly stolen from her by a stranger. Her thwarted love had never
found expression, and she had borne her pain and loss as became the
child of a religion of silence, patience and fortitude. But the wound
had never healed, and now she was compelled to be a sad and hopeless
spectator of another scene which sealed her fate and made her future
hopeless. Her bonnet hid the sad face from view, as her heart hid its
secret.
The turn which had been given to the emotions of these quiet people by
the reading of the parable had been so sudden and so powerful that
perhaps not a single person in the room doubted that David and Pepeeta
would at once rise and enter into that holy contract for which the way
seemed to have been so easily opened by the tender story of the father's
love for the prodigal son.
But it was the unexpected which happened. The soul of David Corson had
passed through one of those genuine and permanent revolutions which
sometimes take place in the nature of man. He had completed the cycle of
revolt and anarchy to which he had been condemned by his inheritance
from a wild and profligate father. Whether that fever had run its
natural course or whether as David himself believed, he had been rescued
by an act of divine intervention, it is certain that the change was as
actual as that which takes place when a grub becomes a butterfly. It was
equally certain that from this time onward it was the mental and
spiritual characteristics of his mother which manifested themselves in
his spiritual evolution.
He became his true self--a saint, an ascetic, a mystic, a potential
martyr.
When he rose to his feet a moment after the reader had finished, his
face shining with an inward light and glowing with a sublime purpose,
all believed that he was about to summon Pepeeta to their marriage.
What was the astonishment, then, when in rapt words he began:
"God has spoken to us, my friends. We have heard his voice. It is too
soon for me to enjoy this bliss! Yes, I will wait! I will dedicate this
year to meditation and prayer. Pepeeta, wilt thou join me in this
resolution? If thou wilt, let the betrothal of this night be one of soul
to soul and both our souls to God! Give me thine hand."
Still under the spell of strange spiritual emotions to which her
sensitive spirit vibrated like the strings of an Æolian harp, Pepeeta
rose, and placing her hands in those of her lover, looked up into his
face with a touching confidence, an almost adoring love. It was more
like the bridal of two pure spirits than the betrothal of a man and
woman!
Not one of those who saw it has ever forgotten that strange scene; it is
a tradition in that community until this day. They felt, and well they
might, those strange people who had dedicated themselves and their
children to the divine life, that in this scene their little community
had attained the zenith of its spiritual history.
No wonder that from an English statesman this eulogy was once wrung: "By
God, sir, we cannot afford to persecute the Quakers! Their religion may
be wrong, but the people who cling to an idea are the very people we
want. If we must persecute--let us persecute the complacent!"