"I've gone an' tol' Judy," says he, "lest she learn t' love ye for
what ye was not."
'Twas no matter to me....
* * * * *
This, then, was the heart of my mystery! I had been fed and adorned
and taught and reared in luxury by the murder of seven men and
the merciless blackmail of an ambitious villain. What had fed me,
warmed me, clothed me had been the product of this horrible
rascality. And my father was the murderer, whom I had dreamed a
hero, and my foster-father was the persecutor, whom I had loved
for his kindly virtue. And paid for!--all paid for in my father's
crime and damnation. This--all this--to make a gentleman of the
ill-born, club-footed young whelp of a fishing skipper! I laughed
as I walked away from this old Nick Top: laughed to recall my progress
through these nineteen years--the proud, self-righteous stalking
of my way.
'Twas a pretty figure I had cut, thinks I, with my rings and London
clothes, in the presence of the Honorable, with whom I had dealt in
pride and anger! 'Twas a pretty figure I had cut, all my life--the
whelp of a ruined, prostituted skipper: the issue of a murderous
barratry! What protection had the defenceless child that had been I
against these machinations? What protest the boy, growing in guarded
ignorance? What appeal the man in love, confronted by his origin and
shameful fostering? Enraged by this, what I thought of my uncle's
misguided object and care I may not here set down, because of the
bitterness and injustice of the reflections; nay, but I dare not
recall the mood and wicked resentment of that time.
And presently I came to the shore of the sea, where I sat down on the
rock, staring out upon the waters. 'Twas grown dark then, of a still,
religious night, with the black sea lapping the rocks, infinitely
continuing in restlessness, and a multitude of stars serenely
twinkling in the uttermost depths of the great sky. 'Twas of this I
thought, I recall, but cannot tell why: that the sea was forever
young, unchanging in all the passions of youth, from the beginning of
time to the end of it; that the mountains were lifted high, of old,
passionless, inscrutable, of unfeeling snow and rock, dwelling above
the wish of the world; that the sweep of prairie, knowing no
resentment, was fruitful to the weakest touch; that the forests fell
without complaint; that the desert, hopeless, aged, contemptuous of
the aspirations of this day, was of immutable bitterness, seeking some
love long lost to it nor ever to be found again; but that the sea was
as it had been when God poured it forth--young and lusty and
passionate--the only thing in all the fleeting world immune from age
and death and desuetude.
'Twas strange enough; but I knew, thank God! when the rocking,
crooning sea took my heart as a harp in its hands, that all the sins
and errors of earth were of creative intention and most beautiful, as
are all the works of the God of us all. Nay, but, thinks I, the sins
of life are more lovely than the righteous accomplishments. Removed by
the starlit sky, wherein He dwells--removed because of its tender
distance and beauty and placidity, because of its compassion and
returning gift of faith, removed by the vast, feeling territory of
sensate waters, whereupon He walks, because they express, eternally,
His wrath and loving kindness--carried far away, in the quiet night, I
looked back, and I understood, as never before--nor can I ever hope to
know again--that God, being artist as we cannot be, had with the life
of the world woven threads of sin and error to make it a pattern of
supernal beauty, that His purpose might be fulfilled, His eyes
delighted.
And 'twas with the healing of night and starry sky and the soft
lullaby of the sea upon my spirit--'twas with this wide, clear vision
of life, the gift of understanding, as concerned its exigencies--that
I arose and went to my uncle....
* * * * *
I met Judith on the way: the maid was hid, waiting for me, in the deep
shadow of the lilacs and the perfume of them, which I shall never
forget, that bordered the gravelled path of our garden.
"You've come at last," says she. "He've been waiting for you--out
there in the dark."
"Judith!" says I.
She came confidingly close to me.
"I've a word to say to you, maid," says I.
"An' you're a true man?" she demanded.
"'Tis a word," says I, "that's between a man an' a maid. 'Tis nothing
more."
She held me off. "An' you're true," she demanded, "to them that have
loved you?"
"As may or may not appear," I answered.
"Ah, Dannie," she whispered, "I cannot doubt you!"
I remember the scent of the lilacs--I remember the dusk--the starlit
sky.
"I have a word," I repeated, "to say to you."
"An' what's that?" says she.
"'Tis that I wish a kiss," says I.
She put up her dear red lips.
"Ay," says I, "but 'tis a case of no God between us. You know what I
am and have been. I ask a kiss."
Her lips still invited me.
"I love you, Judith," says I, "and always have."
Her lips came closer.
"I would be your husband," I declared.
"Kiss me, Dannie," she whispered.
"And there is no God," says I, "between us?"
"There is no God," she answered, "against us."