Part 14 (1/2)
”An' He'd gather un there, at the foot o' the throne,” I went on, ”an'
tell un t' waste no more, but strike up their golden harps.”
”No, no!”
”Why not?”
”They wouldn't go.”
”But He'd _make_ un go.”
”He couldn't.”
”Not _make_ un!” I cried, amazed.
”Look you, lad,” he explained, in a sage whisper, ”they're all mothers, an' they'd be _wantin_' t' stay where they was, an', ecod! they'd find a way.”
”Ah, well,” I sighed, ”'tis wearisome work--this waitin'.”
”I'm thinkin' not,” he answered, soberly, speaking rather to himself than to me. ”'Tis not wearisome for such as know the good Lard's plan.”
”'Tis wonderful hard,” said I, ”on the mothers o' wicked sons.”
The old man smiled. ”Who knows,” he asked, ”that 'tis wonderful hard on they?”
”But then,” I mused, ”the Lord would find a way t' comfort the mother o'
such.”
”Oh, ay!”
”I'm thinkin', maybe,” I went on, ”that He'd send an angel t' tell her they wasn't worth the waitin' for. 'Mind un not,' He'd say. 'They're nothin' but bad, wicked boys. Leave un go t' h.e.l.l an' burn.'”
”An', now, what, lad,” he inquired with deep interest, ”is you thinkin'
the mother would do?”
”She'd take the angel's hand,” I sighed.
”Ay?”
”An' go up t' the throne--forgettin' them she'd left.”
”An' then?”
”She'd praise the Lard,” I sobbed.
”Never!” the skipper cried.