"For," he added, sighing, too, "I have something to tell you, which must
now be told."
Whatever it was--however much he wished it said and over with--he was in
no haste to begin. While, for a long time, I kicked at the rock, in
anxious expectation, he sat with his hands clasped over his knee,
staring deep into the drear mist at sea--beyond the breakers, past the
stretch of black and restless water, far, far into the gray spaces,
which held God knows what changing visions for him! I stole glances at
him--not many, for then I dared not, lest I cry; and I fancied that his
disconsolate musings must be of London, a great city, which, as he had
told me many times, lay infinitely far away in that direction.
"Well, Davy, old man," he said, at last, with a quick little laugh, "hit
or miss, here goes!"
"You been thinkin' o' London," I ventured, hoping, if might be, for a
moment longer to distract him.
"But not with longing," he answered, quickly. "I left no one to wish me
back. Not one heart to want me--not one to wait for me! And I do not
wish myself back. I was a dissipated fellow there, and when I turned my
back on that old life, when I set out to find a place where I might
atone for those old sins, 'twas without regret, and 'twas for good and
all. This," he said, rising, "is my land. This," he repeated, glancing
north and south over the dripping coast, the while stretching wide his
arms, "is now my land! I love it for the opportunity it gave me. I love
it for the new man it has made me. I have forgotten the city. I love
_this_ life! And I love you, Davy," he cried, clapping his arm around
me, "and I love----"
He stopped.
"I knows, zur," said I, in an awed whisper, "whom you love."
"Bessie," said he.
"Ay, Bessie."
There was now no turning away. My recent fears had been realized. I must
tell him what was in my heart.
"Mary Tot says, zur," I gasped, "that love leads t' hell."
He started from me.
"I would not have my sister," I continued, "go t' hell. For, zur," said
I, "she'd be wonderful lonesome there."
"To hell?" he asked, hoarsely.
"Oh, ay!" I groaned. "T' the flames o' hell!"
"'Tis not true!" he burst out, with a radiant smile. "I know it!
Love--my love for her--has led me nearer heaven than ever I hoped to
be!"
I troubled no more. Here was a holy passion. Child that I was--ignorant
of love and knowing little enough of evil--I still perceived that this
love was surely of the good God Himself. I feared no more for my dear
sister. She would be safe with him.
"You may love my sister," said I, "an you want to. You may have her."
He frowned in a troubled way.
"Ay," I repeated, convinced, "you may have my dear sister. I'm not
afraid."
"Davy," he said, now so grave that my heart jumped, "you give her to the
man I am."
"I'm not carin'," I replied, "what you was."
"You do not know."
Apprehension grappled with me. "I'm not wantin' t' know," I protested.
"Come, zur," I pleaded, "leave us go home."
"Once, Davy," he said, "I told you that I had been wicked."
"You're not wicked now."
"I was."
"I'm not carin' what you was. Oh, zur," I cried, tugging at his hand,
"leave us go home!"
"And," said he, "a moment ago I told you that I had been a dissipated
fellow. Do you know what that means?"
"I'm not _wantin_' t' know!"
"You must know."
I saw the peril of it all. "Oh, tell me not!" I begged. "Leave us go
home!"
"But I _must_ tell you, Davy," said he, beginning, now in an agony of
distress, to pace the hilltop. "It is not a matter of to-day. You are
only a lad, now; but you will grow up--and learn--and know. Oh, God," he
whispered, looking up to the frowning sky, laying, the while, his hand
upon my head, "if only we could continue like this child! If only we
_need_ not know! I want you, Davy," he continued, once more addressing
me, "when you grow up, to know, to recall, whatever happens, that I was
fair, fair to you and fair to her, whom you love. You are not like other
lads. It is your _place_, I think, in this little community, that makes
you different. _You_ can understand. I _must_ tell you."
"I'm scared t' know," I gasped. "Take my sister, zur, an' say no more."
"Scared to know? And I to tell. But for your sister's sake--for the sake
of her happiness--I'll tell you, Davy--let me put my arm around you--ay,
I'll tell you, lad, God help me! what it means to be a dissipated
fellow. O Christ," he sighed, "I pay for all I did! Merciful God, at
this moment I pay the utmost price! Davy, lad," drawing me closer, "you
will not judge me harshly?"
"I'll hearken," I answered, hardening.
Then, frankly, he told me as much, I fancy, as a man may tell a lad of
such things....
* * * * *
In horror--in shame--ay, in shame so deep I flushed and dared not look
at him--I flung off his arms. And I sprang away--desperately fingering
my collar: for it seemed I must choke, so was my throat filled with
indignation. "You wicked man!" I cried. "You kissed my sister.
You--_you_--kissed my sister!"
"Davy!"
"You wicked, wicked man!"
"Don't, Davy!"
"Go 'way!" I screamed.
Rather, he came towards me, opening his arms, beseeching me. But I was
hot-headed and willful, being only a lad, without knowledge of sin
gained by sinning, and, therefore, having no compassion; and, still, I
fell away from him, but he followed, continuing to beseech me, until, at
last, I struck him on the breast: whereupon, he winced, and turned away.
Then, in a flash--in the still, illuminating instant that follows a blow
struck in blind rage--I was appalled by what I had done; and I stood
stiff, my hands yet clinched, a storm of sobs on the point of breaking:
hating him and myself and all the world, because of the wrong he had
done us, and the wrong I had done him, and the wrong that life had
worked us all.