"Davy!" he called.
The more he cried after me, the more beseechingly his voice rang in my
ears, the more my heart urged me to return--the harder I ran.
* * * * *
I wish I had not struck him ... I wish, I say, I had not struck him ...
I wish that when he came towards me, with his arms wide open, his
grave, gray eyes pleading--wretched soul that he was--I wish that then I
had let him enfold me. What poor cleverness, what a poor sacrifice, it
would have been! 'Twas I--strange it may have been--but still 'twas I,
Davy Roth, a child, Labrador born and bred, to whom he stretched out his
hand. I should have blessed God that to this remote place a needful man
had come. 'Twas my great moment of opportunity. I might--I might--have
helped him. How rare the chance! And to a child! I might have taken his
hand. I might have led him immediately into placid waters. But I was
I--unfeeling, like all lads: blind, too, reprehensible, deserving of
blame. In all my life--and, as it happens (of no merit of my own, but of
his), it has thus far been spent seeking to give help and comfort to
such as need it--never, never, in the diligent course of it, has an
opportunity so momentous occurred. I wish--oh, I wish--he might once
again need me! To lads--and to men--and to frivolous maids--and to
beggars and babies and cripples and evil persons--and to all sorts and
conditions of human kind! Who knows to whom the stricken soul--downcast
whether of sin or sorrow--may appeal? Herein is justification--the very
key to heaven, with which one may unlock the door and enter, claiming
bliss by right, defiant of God Himself, if need were: "I have sinned, in
common with all men, O God, but I have sought to help such as were in
sorrow, whether of sin or the misfortunes incident to life in the pit
below, which is the world. You dare not cast me out!" Oh, men and women,
lads and maids, I speak because of the wretchedness of my dear folk, out
of their sorrow, which is common to us all, but here, in this barren
place, is unrelieved, not hidden. Take the hand stretched out! And
watch: lest in the great confusion this hand appear--and disappear. If
there be sin, here it is: that the hand wavered, beseeching, within
reach of such as were on solid ground, and was not grasped.
* * * * *
Ah, well! to my sister I ran; and I found her placidly sewing in the
broad window of our house, which now looked out upon a melancholy
prospect of fog and black water and vague gray hills. Perceiving my
distress, she took me in her lap, big boy though I was, and rocked me,
hushing me, the while, until I should command my grief and disclose the
cause of it.
"He's a sinful man," I sobbed, at last. "Oh, dear Bessie, care no more
for him!"
She stopped rocking--and pressed me closer to her soft, sweet bosom--so
close that she hurt me, as my loving mother used to do. And when I
looked up--when, taking courage, I looked into her face--I found it
fearsomely white and hopeless; and when, overcome by this, I took her
hand, I found it very cold.
"Not sinful," she whispered, drawing my cheek close to hers. "Oh, not
that!"
"A sinful, wicked person," I repeated, "not fit t' speak t' such as
you."
"What have he done, Davy?"
"I'd shame t' tell you."
"Oh, what?"
"I may not tell. Hug me closer, Bessie, dear. I'm in woeful want o'
love."
She rocked me, then--smoothing my cheek--kissing me--hoping thus to
still my grief. A long, long time she coddled me, as my mother might
have done.
"Not sinful," she said.
"Ay, a wicked fellow. We must turn un out o' here, Bessie. He've no
place here, no more. He've sinned."
She kissed me on the lips. Her arms tightened about me. And there we
sat--I in my sister's arms--hopeless in the drear light of that day.
"I love him," she said.
"Love him no more! Bessie, dear, he've sinned past all forgiving."
Again--and now abruptly--she stopped rocking. She sat me back in her
lap. I could not evade her glance--sweet-souled, confident, content,
reflecting the bright light of heaven itself.
"There's no sin, Davy," she solemnly said, "that a woman can't forgive."
* * * * *
I passed that afternoon alone on the hills--the fog thickening, the wind
blowing wet and cold, the whole world cast down--myself seeking, all the
while, some reasonable way of return to the doctor's dear friendship. I
did not know--but now I know--that reason, sour and implacable, is sadly
inadequate to our need when the case is sore, and, indeed, a wretched
staff, at best: but that fine impulse, the sure, inner feeling, which is
faith, is ever the more trustworthy, if good is to be achieved, for it
is forever sanguine, nor, in all the course of life, relentless. But,
happily, Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, who, in my childhood, came often
opportunely to guide me with his wiser, strangely accurate philosophy,
now sought me on the hill, being informed, as it appeared, of my
distress--and because, God be thanked! he loved me.
"Go 'way!" I complained.
"Go 'way?" cried he, indignantly. "I'll not go 'way. For shame! To send
me from you!"
"I'm wantin' t' be alone."
"Ay; but 'tis unhealthy for you."
"I'm thrivin' well enough."
"Hut!" said he. "What's this atween the doctor an' you? You'd cast un
off because he've sinned? Ecod! I've seldom heard the like. Who is you?
Even the Lard God A'mighty wouldn't do that. Sure, _He_ loves only such
as have sinned. Lad," he went on, now, with a smile, with a touch of his
rough old hand, compelling my confidence and affection, "what's past is
done with. Isn't you l'arned that yet? Old sins are as if they never had
been. Else what hope is there for us poor sons of men? The weight o' sin
would sink us. 'Tis not the dear Lard's way t' deal so with men. To-day
is not yesterday. What was, has been; it is not. A man is not what he
was--he is what he is. But yet, lad--an' 'tis wonderful queer--to-day
_is_ yesterday. 'Tis _made_ by yesterday. The mistake--the sin--o'
yesterday is the straight course--the righteous deed--o' to-day. 'Tis
only out o' sin that sweetness is born. That's just what sin is for! The
righteous, Davy, dear," he said, in all sincerity, "are not lovable, not
trustworthy. The devil nets un by the hundred quintal, for _'tis_ such
easy fishin'; but sinners--such as sin agin their will--the Lard loves
an' gathers in. They who sin must suffer, Davy, an' only such as suffer
can _know_ the dear Lard's love. God be thanked for sin," he said,
looking up, inspired. "Let the righteous be damned--they deserve it.
Give _me_ the company o' sinners!"
"Is you sure?" I asked, confounded by this strange doctrine.
"I thank God," he answered, composedly, "that _I_ have sinned--and
suffered."
"Sure," said I, "_you_ ought t' know, for you've lived so awful long."
"They's nothin' like sin," said he, with a sure smack of the lips, "t'
make good men. I knows it."
"An' Bessie?"
"Oh, Davy, lad, _she'll_ be safe with him!"
Then I, too, knew it--knew that sin had been beneficently decreed by
God, whose wisdom seems so all-wise, once our perverse hearts are opened
to perceive--knew that my dear sister would, indeed, be safe with this
sinner, who sorrowed, also. And I was ashamed that I had ever doubted
it.
"Look!" Skipper Tommy whispered.
Far off--across the harbour--near lost in the mist--I saw my sister and
the doctor walking together.
* * * * *
My sister was waiting for me. "Davy," she asked, anxiously, "where have
you been?"
"On the hills," I answered.
For a moment she was silent, fingering her apron; and then, looking
fearlessly into my eyes--"I love him," she said.
"I'm glad."
"I cannot help it," she continued, clasping her hands, her breast
heaving. "I love him--so _hard_--I cannot tell it."
"I'm glad."
"An' he loves me. He loves me! I'm not doubtin' that. He _loves_ me,"
she whispered, that holy light once more breaking about her, in which
she seemed transfigured. "Oh," she sighed, beyond expression, "he loves
me!"
"I'm glad."
"An' I'm content t' know it--just t' know that he loves me--just t' know
that I love him. His hands and eyes and arms! I ask no more--but just t'
know it. Just once to have--to have had him--kiss me. Just once to have
lain in his arms, where, forever, I would lie. Oh, I'm glad," she cried,
joyously, "that the good Lord made me! I'm glad--just for that. Just
because he kissed me--just because I love him, who loves me. I'm glad I
was made for him to love. 'Tis quite enough for me. I want--only this I
want--that he may have me--that, body and soul, I may satisfy his
love--so much I love him. Davy," she faltered, putting her hands to her
eyes, "I love--I _love_--I love him!"
Ecod! 'Twas too much for me. Half scandalized, I ran away, leaving her
weeping in my dear mother's rocking-chair.
* * * * *
My sister and I were alone at table that evening. The doctor was gone in
the punt to Jolly Harbour, the maids said; but why, they did not know,
for he had not told them--nor could we guess: for 'twas a vexatious
distance, wind and tide what they were, nor would a wise man undertake
it, save in case of dire need, which did not then exist, the folk of
Jolly Harbour, as everybody knows, being incorruptibly healthy. But I
would not go to sleep that night until my peace was made; and though, to
deceive my sister, I went to bed, I kept my eyes wide open, waiting for
the doctor's step on the walk and on the stair: a slow, hopeless
footfall, when, late in the night, I heard it.
I followed him to his room--with much contrite pleading on the tip of my
tongue. And I knocked timidly on the door.
"Come in, Davy," said he.
My heart was swelling so--my tongue so sadly unmanageable--that I could
do nothing but whimper. But----
"I'm wonderful sad, zur," I began, after a time, "t' think that I----"
"Hush!" said he.
'Twas all I said--not for lack of will or words, but for lack of breath
and opportunity; because all at once (and 'twas amazingly sudden) I
found myself caught off my feet, and so closely, so carelessly,
embraced, that I thought I should then and there be smothered: a death
which, as I had been led to believe, my dear sister might have envied
me, but was not at all to my liking. And when I got my breath 'twas but
to waste it in bawling. But never had I bawled to such good purpose: for
every muffled howl and gasp brought me nearer to that state of serenity
from which I had that day cast myself by harsh and willful conduct.
Then--and 'twas not hard to do--I offered my supreme propitiation: which
was now no more a sacrifice, but, rather, a high delight.
"You may have my sister, zur," I sobbed.
He laughed a little--laughed an odd little laugh, the like of which I
had never heard.
"You may have her," I repeated, somewhat impatiently. "Isn't you hearin'
me? I _give_ her to you."
"This is very kind," he said. "But----"
"You're _wantin'_ her, isn't you?" I demanded, fearing for the moment
that he had meantime changed his mind.
"Yes," he drawled; "but----"
"But what?"
"She'll not have me."
"Not have you!" I cried.
"No," said he.
At that moment I learned much wisdom concerning the mysterious ways of
women.