Part 15 (1/2)
CHAPTER VI
IN THE FOLLY OF HIS YOUTH
At early twilight Bernal, sore at heart for the pain he had been obliged to cause the old man, went to the study-door for a last word with him.
”I believe there is no one above whose forgiveness I need, sir--but I shall always be grieved if I can't have yours. I _do_ need that.”
The old man had stood by the open door as if meaning to cut short the interview.
”You have it. I forgive you any hurt you have done me; it was due quite as much to my limitations as to yours. For that other forgiveness, which you will one day know is more than mine--I--I shall always pray for that.”
He stopped, and the other waited awkwardly, his heart rus.h.i.+ng out in ineffectual flood against the old man's barrier of stern restraint. For a moment he made folds in his soft hat with a fastidious precision. Finally he nerved himself to say calmly:
”I thank you, sir, for all you have done--all you have ever done for me and for Allan--and, good-bye!”
”Good-bye!”
Though there was no hint of unkindness in the old man's voice, something formal in his manner had restrained the other from offering his hand.
Still loath to go without it, he said again more warmly:
”Good-bye, sir!”
”Good-bye!”
This time he turned and went slowly down the dim hall, still making the careful folds in his hat, as if he might presently recall something that would take him back. At the foot of the stairs he stopped quickly to listen, believing he had heard a call from above; but nothing came and he went out. Still in the door upstairs was the old man--stern of face, save that far back in his eyes a kind spirit seemed to strive ineffectually.
Across the lawn from her hammock Nancy called to Bernal. He went slowly toward her, still suffering from the old man's coldness--and for the hurts he had unwittingly put upon him.
The girl, as he went forward, stood to greet him, her gown, sleeveless, neckless, taking the bluish tinge that early twilight gives to snow, a tinge that deepened to dusk about her eyes and in her hair. She gave him her hand and at once he felt a balm poured into his tortured heart. After all, men were born to hurt and be hurt.
He sat in the rustic chair opposite the hammock, looking into Nancy's black-lashed eyes of the Irish gray, noting that from nineteen to twenty her neck had broadened at the base the least one might discern, that her face was less full yet richer in suggestion--her face of the odds and ends when she did not smile. At this moment she was not only unsmiling, but excited.
”Oh, Bernal, what is it? Tell me quick. Allan was so vague--though he said he'd always stand by you, no matter what you did. What _have_ you done, Bernal? Is it a college sc.r.a.pe?”
”Oh, that's only Allan's big-hearted way of talking! He's so generous and loyal I think he's often been disappointed that I didn't do something, so he _could_ stand by me. No--no sc.r.a.pes, Nance, honour bright!”
”But you're leaving--”
”Well, in a way I have done something. I've found I couldn't be a minister as Grandad had set his heart on my being--”
”But if you haven't done anything wicked, why not?”
”Oh, I'm not a believer.”
”In what?”
”In anything, I think--except, well, in you and Grandad and--and Allan and Clytie--yes, and in myself, Nance. That's a big point. I believe in myself.”