Part 36 (1/2)

Ah, well! to my sister I ran; and I found her placidly sewing in the broad window of our house, which now looked out upon a melancholy prospect of fog and black water and vague gray hills. Perceiving my distress, she took me in her lap, big boy though I was, and rocked me, hus.h.i.+ng me, the while, until I should command my grief and disclose the cause of it.

”He's a sinful man,” I sobbed, at last. ”Oh, dear Bessie, care no more for him!”

She stopped rocking--and pressed me closer to her soft, sweet bosom--so close that she hurt me, as my loving mother used to do. And when I looked up--when, taking courage, I looked into her face--I found it fearsomely white and hopeless; and when, overcome by this, I took her hand, I found it very cold.

”Not sinful,” she whispered, drawing my cheek close to hers. ”Oh, not that!”

”A sinful, wicked person,” I repeated, ”not fit t' speak t' such as you.”

”What have he done, Davy?”

”I'd shame t' tell you.”

”Oh, what?”

”I may not tell. Hug me closer, Bessie, dear. I'm in woeful want o'

love.”

She rocked me, then--smoothing my cheek--kissing me--hoping thus to still my grief. A long, long time she coddled me, as my mother might have done.

”Not sinful,” she said.

”Ay, a wicked fellow. We must turn un out o' here, Bessie. He've no place here, no more. He've sinned.”

She kissed me on the lips. Her arms tightened about me. And there we sat--I in my sister's arms--hopeless in the drear light of that day.

”I love him,” she said.

”Love him no more! Bessie, dear, he've sinned past all forgiving.”

Again--and now abruptly--she stopped rocking. She sat me back in her lap. I could not evade her glance--sweet-souled, confident, content, reflecting the bright light of heaven itself.

”There's no sin, Davy,” she solemnly said, ”that a woman can't forgive.”

I pa.s.sed that afternoon alone on the hills--the fog thickening, the wind blowing wet and cold, the whole world cast down--myself seeking, all the while, some reasonable way of return to the doctor's dear friends.h.i.+p. I did not know--but now I know--that reason, sour and implacable, is sadly inadequate to our need when the case is sore, and, indeed, a wretched staff, at best: but that fine impulse, the sure, inner feeling, which is faith, is ever the more trustworthy, if good is to be achieved, for it is forever sanguine, nor, in all the course of life, relentless. But, happily, Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, who, in my childhood, came often opportunely to guide me with his wiser, strangely accurate philosophy, now sought me on the hill, being informed, as it appeared, of my distress--and because, G.o.d be thanked! he loved me.

”Go 'way!” I complained.

”Go 'way?” cried he, indignantly. ”I'll not go 'way. For shame! To send me from you!”

”I'm wantin' t' be alone.”

”Ay; but 'tis unhealthy for you.”

”I'm thrivin' well enough.”

”Hut!” said he. ”What's this atween the doctor an' you? You'd cast un off because he've sinned? Ecod! I've seldom heard the like. Who is you?

Even the Lard G.o.d A'mighty wouldn't do that. Sure, _He_ loves only such as have sinned. Lad,” he went on, now, with a smile, with a touch of his rough old hand, compelling my confidence and affection, ”what's past is done with. Isn't you l'arned that yet? Old sins are as if they never had been. Else what hope is there for us poor sons of men? The weight o' sin would sink us. 'Tis not the dear Lard's way t' deal so with men. To-day is not yesterday. What was, has been; it is not. A man is not what he was--he is what he is. But yet, lad--an' 'tis wonderful queer--to-day _is_ yesterday. 'Tis _made_ by yesterday. The mistake--the sin--o'