Part 17 (1/2)

”No.”

”Only Daddy an' Mammy Sawyer knows. Our father he was a bad man, so we don't tell. The kids don't mind him, but I do. He wasn't bad to us, but he done somethin' awful, an' then he ran away, an' our mother died, an' he sent us miles an' miles away to a city, an' we lived with old Mother c.u.mmins. But I mind the ocean--it smelt like--ok, it smelt awful good! Did you ever smell the ocean?”

The man was supporting his head on his hand; his face was turned away.

”Oh, say! it's bully! It's somethin' like the smell o' the crick, jist below the falls, on a hot day--only--only different. That's why I play hookey so often down in the holler, 'cause it smells like the ocean.”

Tim made his statement proudly. It was a wonderful privilege to boast of how bad you were, and be sure you would be unreproved.

”We had good times when we lived there, but when ole Mother c.u.mmins got us it was different. She wasn't so awful bad at first, 'cause our father uster send money; but he stopped. I guess he must 'a' died, or run away farther. An' after that, say! didn't our ole woman uster hammer us? She'd get drunk an' sleep on the floor, an' I uster pinch her black an' blue an' stick pins into her for poundin' Joey!” His small, withered face was fierce, his old eyes were cruel. ”An' one day she cut Lorry's head open with her stick; so we all lit out. I carried Joey for miles an' miles, an' then some folks took us to the Home, an'

then Daddy an' Mammy Sawyer came. Do you s'pose G.o.d sent them for us?

Miss Scott said He did. Did He? Eh?”

”I--I suppose so.”

”You ain't dead sure about anything G.o.d does, are you?” asked Tim sympathetically. ”Ain't you remembered about the harmless thrush yet?”

John McIntyre did not answer. He sat still so long, with his face in his hands, that the boy grew weary, and rising, hobbled homeward.

The man's gray head sank lower. His thin hands, hard, and worn with heavy toil, were trembling violently. His stooped shoulders, in their poor, thread-bare covering, heaved convulsively. For the first time in years he had dared to look back into the blossom-strewn past, and the sight had been too much for his strength.

His misfortunes had come upon him in a way that, at first, had left him no time to reflect. His home had gone, and then his friend, just at the time when he needed his help. Then had come greater trials.

Sickness stalked hand in hand with poverty. One by one his children were laid away in the earth; and then toil and want and grief had at last taken her, his best beloved, and in her grave John McIntyre had buried happiness and hope and faith.

What had he left in life? His home, his loved ones, were gone--even Martin must be dead, or he would have come to him long ago. Nothing remained but misery, and distrust of his fellow-men--and hatred--hatred of the man who had defrauded him, and who was now, no doubt, living in wealth and prosperity.

And what had he done to deserve it all? That had always been John McIntyre's cry. Why must he and his be singled out for such suffering?

Why should his innocent loved ones be the victims of a villain's rapacity?

And how he had worked to save them from want! Oh, G.o.d! how he had toiled, until his back was bent and his health broken! And it had all been of no use--no use!

He clenched his shaking hands, striving to gain control of himself. In the early days of his misfortunes the necessity for straining every effort had kept him from brooding upon his losses, and finally a numbness of despair had seized him. But to-night the child's artless talk had brought back vividly the old home scene. He could see it now, as he had seen it so often in the light of a summer evening. The sparkling sea, with the tang of salt water wafted up over his fields; the rippling stream, winding like a thread of gold down to the Bay of Fundy; his cozy home peeping from its orchard nest, and Mary at the doorway, singing their baby's lullaby; Martin's gay voice pa.s.sing down the road; and in the purpling woods the tender song of the hermit thrush:

”_O hear all! O hear all! O holy, holy!_”

A wave of desperate longing for the old days swept over him; a very pa.s.sion of loneliness and homesickness shook his desolate soul.

Why should he struggle against it? he asked himself. Why live on in misery, only to die in misery at the end? Why not end it now? There was no G.o.d, at least none that cared; and as for the future--he had laughed when the minister mentioned h.e.l.l. What profounder wretchedness could it hold than all he had already endured?

He rose to his feet stealthily. His eyes were burning in his white face. He stepped cautiously along the bank of the pond to a place where the water was deep. He glanced about fearfully. His only feeling was one of dread lest he be intercepted. He slipped into the shadow of a pile of logs, then crept to the edge of the dark water.

Suddenly he paused, startled. Something had rustled in the willows.

It was only a muskrat; but as he stood, listening, another sound fell upon his ear, the sound of a voice singing a familiar hymn. There was something in the singer's tone, a compelling sweetness, that made John McIntyre pause on the brink of death to listen.

CHAPTER IX

THE SONG IN THE NIGHT

Though strife, ill fortune and harsh human need Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb With agony; yet, patience--there shall come Many great voices from life's outer sea, Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed, Murmurs and glimpses of eternity.