“And,” said he, “a moment ago I told you that I had been a dissipated fellow. Do you know what that means?”
“I’m not wantin’ t’ know!”
“You must know.”
I saw the peril of it all. “Oh, tell me not!” I begged. “Leave us go home!”
“But I must tell you, Davy,” said he, beginning, now in an agony of distress, to pace the hilltop. “It is not a matter of to-day. You are only a lad, now; but you will grow up—and learn—and know. Oh, God,” he whispered, looking up to the frowning sky, laying, the while, his hand upon my head, “if only we could continue like this child! If only we need not know! I want you, Davy,” he continued, once more addressing me, “when you grow up, to know, to recall, whatever happens, that I was fair, fair to you and fair to her, whom you love. You are not like other lads. It is your place, I think, in this little community, that makes you different. You can understand. I must tell you.”
“I’m scared t’ know,” I gasped. “Take my sister, zur, an’ say no more.”
“Scared to know? And I to tell. But for your sister’s sake—for the sake of her happiness—I’ll tell you, Davy—let me put my arm around you—ay, I’ll tell you, lad, God help me! what it means to be a dissipated fellow. O Christ,” he sighed, “I pay for all I did! Merciful God, at this moment I pay the utmost price! Davy, lad,” drawing me closer, “you will not judge me harshly?”
“I’ll hearken,” I answered, hardening.
Then, frankly, he told me as much, I fancy, as a man may tell a lad of such things....