The Redemption of David Corson

by Charles Frederic Goss

And when the labors of the day had ended, they sat beneath the spreading hackberry trees, or wandered through the garden, or down the winding lane to the meadow, and reviewed the past with sadness or looked forward to the future with a chastened joy. Their spirits were subdued and softened, their love took on a holy rather than a passionate cast, they felt themselves beneath the shadow of an awful crime, and again and again when they grew joyous and almost gay they were checked by the irrepressible apprehension that out from under the silently revolving wheels of judgment some other punishment would roll.

Tenderly as they loved each other, and sweet as was that love, they could not always be happy with such a past behind them! In proportion to the soul's real grandeur it must suffer over its own imperfections. This suffering is remorse. In proud and gloomy hearts which tell their secrets only to their own pillows, its tears are poison and its rebukes the thrust of daggers. But in those which, like theirs, are gentle and tender by nature, remorseful tears are drops of penitential dew. David and Pepeeta suffered, but their suffering was curative, for pure love is like a fountain; by its incessant gushing from the heart it clarifies the most turbid streams of thought or emotion. Each week witnessed a perceptible advance in peace, in rest, in quiet happiness, and at last the night of their marriage arrived, and they went together to the meeting house.

The people gathered as they did at that other service when David made the address to which Pepeeta had listened with such astonishment and rapture. The entire community of Friends was there, for even Quakers cannot entirely repress their curiosity. There was evidence of deep feeling and even of suppressed excitement. The men in their broad-brimmed hats, the women in their poke bonnets, moved with an almost unseemly rapidity through the evening shadows. The pairs and groups conversed in rapid, eager whispers. They did not linger outside the door, but entered hastily and took their places as if some great event were about to happen.

There was a preliminary service of worship, and according to custom, opportunity was given for prayer or exhortation. But all minds were too intent upon what was to follow to enable them to take part with spirit. The silences were frequent and tedious. The young people moved restlessly on their seats, and their elders rebuked them with silent glances of disapproval. All were in haste, but nothing can really upset the gravity of these calm and tranquil people, and it was not until after a suitable time had elapsed that the leader of the meeting arose and said: "The time has arrived when David and Pepeeta are at liberty to proceed with their marriage, unless there be some one who can show just cause why this rite should not be solemnized."

A flutter ran through the assembly, and a moment of waiting ensued; then David rose, while every eye was fixed on him.

"My friends," he said, in a voice whose gentleness and sweetness stirred their hearts; "you have refrained from inquiring into the story of my life during the three years of my absence. I would be glad if I could withhold it from your knowledge; but I feel that I must make a confession of my sins."

In the death-like stillness he began. The narrative was in itself dramatic, but the deep feeling of him who told it, his natural oratory and the hearers' intent interest, lent to it a fascination that at times became almost unendurable. Sighs were often heard, tears were furtively wiped away, criticism was disarmed, and the tenderness of this illicit but passionate and determined love, blinded even those calm and righteous listeners to its darker and more desperate phases. By an almost infallible instinct we discover true love amid fictitious, unworthy and evil elements; and when seen there is something so sublimely beautiful that we prostrate ourselves before it and believe against evidence, even, that sooner or later it will ennoble and consecrate those who feel it.

When David had completed the narrative he continued as follows: "It is now necessary that I should convince you, if I can, that with my whole soul I have repented of this evil that I have done, and that I have sought, and I hope obtained, pardon for what is irreparable, and am determined to undo what I can. It is with awe and gratitude, my friends, that I acknowledge the aid of heaven. From the logical and well-deserved consequences of this sin I did not escape alone! I was snatched from it like a brand from the burning! No mortal-mind could have planned or executed my salvation. It is marked by evidences of Divine power and wisdom. Through a series of experiences almost too strange to be credible, I have been drawn back here to the scenes of my childhood, to encounter the one I have wronged and to find myself, so far as I know, able not only to make reparation, but to enjoy the bliss of a love of which I am unworthy. If I were wise enough, I would set before you the spiritual meaning of this terrible experience, but I am not. Three years ago I stood here in boyish confidence and boldly expounded the mysteries of our human life. It is only when we know nothing of life that we feel able to interpret it! Now that I have seen it, tasted it, drunk the cup almost to the dregs—I am speechless. Three facts, however, stand out before my vision—sin, punishment, pardon! I have sinned; I have suffered; I have been forgiven. I have been fully pardoned, but I feel that I have not been fully punished! There are issues of such an experience as this that cannot be brought to light in a day, a year, perhaps not in a lifetime. Whatever they are, I must await them and meet them; but as it is permitted a man to know his own mind, when he is determined so to do, I know that I have turned upon this sin with loathing! I know that I am ready to take up my burden where I left it years ago. I know that I would do anything to atone for the evil which I have wrought to others. I mean, if it seem good to you, here and now to claim as my bride her into whose life I have brought a world of sorrow. I mean, if God permits me, to live quietly and patiently among you until I have so recruited my spiritual strength that I can go forth into the great world of sorrow and of sin which I have seen, and extend to others a hand of helpfulness such as was stretched out to me at the moment of my need; but if there is any one here to whom God has given a message for me, whether it be to approve or condemn my course, I trust that I shall have grace to receive it meekly."

He took his seat, and it seemed for a few moments that every person in the room had yielded heart and judgment to this noble and modest appeal. But there was among them one whose stern and unyielding sense of justice had not been appeased. He was a man who had often suffered for righteousness sake and who attached more value to the testimony of a clear conscience than to any earthly dignity. He slowly and solemnly rose. His form was like that of a prophet of ancient days. His deep-set eyes glowed like two bright stars under the cloudy edge of his broad-brimmed hat. His face was emaciated with a self-denial that bordered upon asceticism, and wan with ceaseless contemplations of the problems of life, death and immortality. Not a trace of tender emotion was evident on features, which might have been carved in marble. It was impossible to conceive that he had ever been young, and there seemed a bitter irony in the effort of such a man to judge the cause of a love like that which pleaded for satisfaction in the hearts of David and Pepeeta, and to pronounce upon the destinies of those whose souls were still throbbing with passion.

But such was the purpose of the man. His first words sounded on the stillness like an alarm bell and shook the souls of listeners with a sort of terror.