THE UNPARDONABLE SIN
During the first week in May the old Squire and grandmother Ruth made a
trip to Portland, and when they came back, they brought, among other
presents to us young folks at home, a glass jar of goldfish for Ellen.
In Ellen's early home, before the Civil War and before she came to the
old Squire's to live, there had always been a jar of goldfish in the
window, and afterwards at the old farm the girl had often remarked that
she missed it. Well I remember the cry of joy she gave that day when
grandmother stepped down from the wagon at the farmhouse door and,
turning, took a glass jar of goldfish from under the seat.
"O grandmother!" she cried and fairly flew to take it from the old
lady's hands.
Ellen had eyes for nothing else that evening, and as it grew dark she
went time and again with a lamp to look at the fish and to drop in
crumbs of cracker.
During the four days the old folks were away we had run free; games and
jokes had been in full swing. There was still mischief in us, for the
next morning when we came down to do the chores before any one else was
up, Addison said:
"Let's have some fun with Nell; she'll be down here pretty quick. Get
some fish poles and strings and bend up some pins for hooks and we'll
pretend to be fishing in the jar!"
In a few minutes we each had rigged up a semblance of fishing tackle and
were ready. When Ellen opened the sitting-room door a little later the
sight that met her astonished eyes took her breath away. Addison was
calmly fishing in the jar!
"What are you doing?" she cried. "My goldfish!"
Addison fled out of the room with Ellen in hot pursuit; she finally
caught him, seized the rod and broke it. But when she turned back to see
what damages her adored fish had suffered, she beheld Halstead, perched
over the jar, also fishing in it.
"My senses! You here, too!" she cried. "Can't a boy see a fish without
wanting to catch it?"
When she hurried back in a flurry of anxiety after chasing him to the
carriage house, she found me there, too, pretending to yank one out. But
by this time she saw that it was a joke, and the box on the ear that she
gave me was not a very hard one.
"Seems to me, young folks, I heard quite too much noise down here for
Sunday morning," grandmother said severely when she appeared a little
later. "Such racing and running! You really must have better regard for
the day."
Preparations for breakfast went on in a subdued manner, and we were
sitting at table rather quietly when a caller appeared at the door--Mrs.
Rufus Sylvester, who lived about a mile from us. Her face wore a look of
anxiety.
"Squire," she exclaimed, "I implore you to come over and say something
to Rufus! He's terrible downcast this morning. He went out to the barn,
but he hasn't milked, nor done his chores. He's settin' out there with
his face in his hands, groanin'. I'm afraid, Squire, he may try to take
his own life!"
The old Squire rose from the table and led Mrs. Sylvester into the
sitting-room; grandmother followed them and carefully shut the door
behind her. We heard them speaking in low tones for some moments; then
they came out, and both the old Squire and grandmother Ruth set off with
Mrs. Sylvester.
"Is he ill?" Theodora whispered to grandmother as the old lady passed
her.
"No, child; he is melancholy this spring," the old lady replied. "He is
afraid he has committed the unpardonable sin."
The old folks and our caller left us finishing our breakfast, and I
recollect that for some time none of us spoke. Our recent unseemly
hilarity had vanished.
"What do you suppose Sylvester's done?" Halstead asked at last, with a
glance at Theodora; then, as she did not seem inclined to hazard
conjectures on that subject, he addressed himself to Addison, who was
trying to extract a second cup of coffee from the big coffeepot.
"You know everything, Addison, or think you do. What is this
unpardonable sin?"
"Cousin Halstead," Addison replied, not relishing the manner in which he
had put the question, "you are likely enough to find that out for
yourself if you don't mend some of your bad ways here."
Halstead flamed up and muttered something about the self-righteousness
of a certain member of the family; but Theodora then remarked tactfully
that, as nearly as she could understand it, the unpardonable sin is
something we do that can never be forgiven.
Some months before Elder Witham had preached a sermon in which he had
set forth the doctrine of predestination and the unpardonable sin, but I
have to confess that none of us could remember what he had said.
"I think it's in the Bible," Theodora added, and, going into the
sitting-room, she fetched forth grandmother Ruth's concordance Bible and
asked Addison to help her find the references. Turning first to one
text, then to another, for some minutes they read the passages aloud,
but did not find anything conclusive. The discussion had put me in a
rather disturbed state of mind in regard to several things I had done at
one time and another, and I suppose I looked sober, for I saw Addison
regarding me curiously. He continued to glance at me, clearly with
intention, and shook his head gloomily several times until Ellen noticed
it and exclaimed in my behalf, "Well, I guess he stands as good a chance
as you do!"
Two hours or so later the old Squire and grandmother returned,
thoughtfully silent; they did not tell us what had occurred, and it was
not until a good many years later, when Theodora, Halstead and Addison
had left the old farm, that I learned what had happened that morning at
the Sylvester place. The old Squire and I were driving home from the
village when something brought the incident to his mind, and, since I
was now old enough to understand, he related what had occurred.
When they reached the Sylvester farm that morning grandmother went
indoors with Mrs. Sylvester, and the old Squire proceeded to the barn.
All was very dark and still there, and it was some moments before he
discovered Rufus; the man was sitting on a heckling block at the far
dark end of the barn, huddled down, with his head bowed in his hands.
"Good morning, neighbor!" the old Squire said cheerily. "A fine Sabbath
morning. Spring never looked more promising for us."
Rufus neither stirred nor answered. The old Squire drew near and laid
his hand gently on his shoulder.
"Is it something you could tell me about?" he asked.
Rufus groaned and raised two dreary eyes from his hands. "Oh, I can't!
I'm 'shamed. It's nothin' I can tell!" he cried out miserably and then
burst into fearful sobs.
"Don't let me ask, then, unless you think it might do you good," the old
Squire said.
"Nothin'll ever do me any good again!" Rufus cried. "I'm beyond it,
Squire. I'm a lost soul. The door of mercy is closed on me, Squire. I've
committed the unpardonable sin!"
The old Squire saw that no effort to cheer Rufus that did not go to the
root of his misery would avail. Sitting down beside him, he said:
"A great many of us sometimes fear that we have committed the
unpardonable sin. But there is one sure way of knowing whether a person
has committed it or not. I once knew a man who in a drunken brawl had
killed another. He was convicted of manslaughter, served his term in
prison, then went back to his farm and worked hard and well for ten
years. One spring that former crime began to weigh on his mind. He
brooded on it and finally became convinced that he had committed the sin
for which there can be no forgiveness. He wanted desperately to atone
for what he had done, and the idea got possession of his mind that since
he had taken a human life the only way for him was to take his own
life--a life for a life. The next morning they found that he had hanged
himself in his barn.
"The young minister who was asked to officiate at the funeral declined
to do so on doctrinal grounds; and the burial was about to take place
without even a prayer at the grave when a stranger hurriedly approached.
He was a celebrated divine who had heard the circumstances of the man's
death and who had journeyed a hundred miles to offer his services at the
burial.
"'My good friends,' the stranger began, 'I have come to rectify a great
mistake. This poor fellow mortal whose body you are committing to its
last resting place mistook the full measure of God's compassion. He
believed that he had committed that sin for which there is no
forgiveness. In his extreme anxiety to atone for his former crime, he
was led to commit another, for God requires no man to commit suicide,
and his Word expressly forbids it. My friends, I am here to-day to tell
you that there is _only one sin for which there is no forgiveness, and
that is the sin which we do not repent. That alone is the unpardonable
sin._ This man was sincerely sorry for his sin, and I am as certain that
God has forgiven him as I am that I am standing here by his grave.'"
As the old Squire spoke, Rufus raised his head, and a ray of hope broke
across his woebegone face.
"Now the question is," the old Squire continued, "are you sorry for what
you did?"
"Oh, yes, Squire, yes! I'm terribly sorry!" he cried eagerly. "I do
repent of it! I never in the world would do such a thing again!"
"Then what you have done was not the unpardonable sin at all!" the old
Squire exclaimed confidently.
"Do you think so?" Rufus cried imploringly.
"I know so!" the old Squire declared authoritatively. "Now let's feed
those cows and your horse. Then we will go out and take a look at the
fields where you are going to put in a crop this spring."
When the old Squire and grandmother Ruth came away the shadows at the
Sylvester farm had visibly lifted, and life was resuming its normal
course there. They had proceeded only a short distance on their homeward
way, however, when they heard footsteps behind, and saw Rufus hastening
after them bareheaded.
"Tell me, Squire, what d'ye think I ought to do about that--what I done
once?" he cried.
"Well, Rufus," the old Squire replied, "that is a matter you must settle
with your own conscience. Since you ask me, I should say that, if the
wrong you did can be righted in any way, you had better try to right
it."
"I will. I can. That's what I will do!" he exclaimed.
"I feel sure you will," the old Squire said; and Rufus went back,
looking much relieved.
"Did you ever find out just what it was that Sylvester had done?" I
asked.
"Well, never exactly," the old Squire replied, smiling. "But I made
certain surmises. Less than a fortnight after my talk with Rufus our
neighbors, the Wilburs, were astonished one morning to find that during
the night a full barrel of salt pork had been set on their porch by the
kitchen door. Every mark had been carefully scraped off the barrel, but
on the top head were the words, printed with a lead pencil, 'This is
yourn and I am sorry.'
"Fourteen years before, the Wilburs had lost a large hog very
mysteriously. At that time domestic animals were allowed to run about
much more freely than at present, and they often strayed along the
highway. Sylvester was always in poor circumstances; and I believe that
Wilbur's hog came along the road by night and that Rufus was tempted to
make way with it privately and to conceal all traces of the theft.
"In spite of the words on the head of the barrel, Mr. Wilbur was in some
doubt what to do with the pork and asked my advice. I told him that if I
were in his place I should keep it and say nothing. But I didn't tell
him of my talk with Sylvester about the unpardonable sin," the old
gentleman added, smiling. "That was hardly a proper subject for gossip."