Part 17 (1/2)

”As you think, minister.”

”Tell them just what you have told me. I believe every word you have said, and I will stand by you--I and all good men and women, I am sure.”

”Thank you, minister.”

But he could scarcely utter the words. He had often thought of this ordeal; now that it was really to face, his heart utterly failed him. He went straight to Nanna, and she forgot her own sorrow in his, and so comforted and strengthened him that he went away feeling that all things would be possible if she was always as kind and sympathetic.

It was then Friday, and Wednesday came inexorably and swiftly. David tried in every way to prepare himself, but no strength came from his efforts. Prayer, nor meditation, nor long memories of the past, nor hopes for the future, had any potency. He was stupefied by the thing demanded of him, and the simple, vivid cry which always brings help had not yet been forced from his lips. But at the last moment it came. Then the coldness and dumbness and wretched inertness that had bound him, body and soul, were gone. When he saw Matilda Sabiston enter the kirk, her eyes gleaming and her face eager with evil expectations, he felt the wondrous words of David[3]

burning in his heart and on his lips, and he was no longer afraid.

Psalm after psalm went singing through his soul, and he said joyfully to himself, ”Sometimes G.o.d is long in coming, but he is _never too late_.”

The minister did not ascend the pulpit. He stood at the table, and after a prayer and a hymn he said:

”We have come together this afternoon to hear what David Borson has to say in regard to the charge which Matilda Sabiston has made for twenty-six years against his father Liot Borson.”

”That question was decided long ago,” said an old man, rising slowly.

”I heard Minister Ridlon give verdict concerning it at the funeral of Liot's wife.”

”It was _not_ decided,” cried Matilda, standing up, and turning her face to the congregation. ”Liot Borson found it easy to lie at his wife's coffin-side, but when it came to his own death-hour he did not dare to die without telling the truth. Ask his son David.”

”David Borson,” said the minister, ”at your father's death-hour did he indeed confess to the slaying of Bele Trenby?”

Then David stood up. All fear had gone, he knew not where. He looked even taller than his wont. And the light of G.o.d's presence was so close to him that his large, fair face really had a kind of luminosity.

”Minister,” he answered with a solemn confidence, ”minister and friends, my father at his death-hour expressly said that _he did not slay Bele Trenby_. He said that he laid no finger on him, that he fell into his own snare. This is what happened: He met my father on the moss, and said, 'Good evening, Liot.' And my father said, 'It is dark,' and spoke no more. You know--all of you know--they were ill friends and rivals; so, then, silence was the best. And if Bele had been content to be silent and tread slowly in my father's steps he had reached his s.h.i.+p in safety. But he must talk and he must hurry; and the first was not wanted, and the second was dangerous. And after a little my father's shoe-strings came undone, and he stooped to tie them--who wouldn't, where a false step or a fall might be death? And Bele went on, and called back to him, 'Is this the crossing?' And father had not finished fastening his shoes, and did not answer. So then Bele called again, and it is likely father would not be hurried by him, and he did not answer that time, either. And Bele said he was in the devil's temper, and went on at his own risk. And the next moment there was a cry, and my father lifted his head hastily, and the man had walked into the moss, and then who _could_ help him? But well I know, if help had been possible, my father would have given his own life to save life, even though the man was ten times his enemy. Over and over I have seen Liot Borson bring from the sea men who hated him, and whom no one else would venture life for. Never mortal man walked closer with G.o.d than Liot Borson. I, who have lived alone with him for twenty years, I know this; and I will dare to say that in the matter of Bele Trenby he did no worse, and perhaps a great deal better, than any other man would have done. Why was Bele on the moss?

He was a sailor and a stranger. A man must have life-knowledge of the moss to walk it in the night-time. When my father was willing to guide him across it, was it too much that he should be silent, and that he should let his guide do a thing so necessary as to secure tightly his shoes on the soft, unstable ground? Was his guide to let go this safe precaution because Bele was in a hurry to reach his s.h.i.+p? Was Liot Borson to blame if the man's foolhardiness and insolent presumption led him into danger and death? As for me, I say this: I wish to be a man after my father's heart. For he was a righteous man in all his ways, and kind-hearted to every creature in trouble; and he was a life-saver, and not a murderer. And this I, his loving son, will maintain to my last breath. And if, after these words, any man says, 'Liot Borson was a murderer,' I will call him a cowardly liar and slanderer at Lerwick Market Cross, and follow the words to the end they deserve. And G.o.d knows I speak the truth, and the whole truth.”

Then David sat down, and there was an audible stir and movement of sympathy and approbation. And the minister said: ”I believe every word you have spoken, David. If any present has a word to say, now is the time to speak.”

Then Elder Hay rose and said: ”Of what use is talk? Liot Borson is dead and judged. How shall we, sinful men ourselves, dare to meddle with the verdict of the Lord G.o.d Almighty? If we in our ignorance or spite reverse it, what a presumption it will be! And if we confirm it, is G.o.d's decree made stronger by our 'yea, yeas'? What at all does Mistress Sabiston want?”

”I want Liot Borson's name taken off the roll,” she answered vehemently. ”It has no right in the kirk's books. Cross it out!

Blot it out! It is a shame to the white pages.”

”Is there here any man or woman who will do Mistress Sabiston's will, and cross out Liot Borson's name for her?” asked the minister.

There was a deep, emphatic ”No!” And the minister continued: ”I would myself rather cut off my right hand than cross out the name of one who has pa.s.sed far beyond our jurisdiction. Suppose--and we have a right to suppose--that the name of Liot Borson is written in the s.h.i.+ning letters of the book of life, and we have crossed it off our kirk book! What then? I think this question is settled. I never want to hear it named again. I will enter into no conversations about it. It has been taken out of our hands by G.o.d himself. We will not dare to discuss in any way what he has already decided. We will now sing together the Forty-third Psalm.”

And, amid the rustle of the opening leaves, the minister himself started the psalmody. There was a little air of hurry in his movements, as if he hasted to drown all contention in singing; but he had reached his usual grave composure before the end of the verses, and the benediction fell like the final satisfying chords of the melody.

Matilda was dumfounded by such a cutting short of the case, but even she dared not interrupt functions so holy as praise and prayer. In the kirk she was compelled to restrain her indignation, but when she found that the resolution of Minister Campbell not to discuss the matter or enter into any conversation about it was universally adopted by the townspeople, her anger found words such as are not to be met with in books; and she did not spare them.

David was singularly happy and satisfied. He had been grandly supported both by G.o.d and man, and he was grateful for the p.r.o.nounced kindness of his friends, for their hand-shakings and greetings and loving words and wishes. But when both the enthusiasm and the pang of conflict were over, oh, how good it was to clasp Nanna's hand, and in this perfect but silent companions.h.i.+p to walk home with her! Then Nanna made a cup of tea, and they drank it together, and talked over what had been said and done, finally drifting, as they always did, to that invincible necessity that whatever is could not but so have been. And though their words were, as all human words about G.o.d must be, terribly inadequate, yet their longing, their love, and their fears were all understood. And He who is so vast and strange when

With intellect we gaze, Close to their hearts stole in, In a thousand tender ways.