I wish I had not struck him ... I wish, I say, I had not struck him ... I wish that when he came towards me, with his arms wide open, his grave, gray eyes pleading—wretched soul that he was—I wish that then I had let him enfold me. What poor cleverness, what a poor sacrifice, it would have been! ’Twas I—strange it may have been—but still ’twas I, Davy Roth, a child, Labrador born and bred, to whom he stretched out his hand. I should have blessed God that to this remote place a needful man had come. ’Twas my great moment of opportunity. I might—I might—have helped him. How rare the chance! And to a child! I might have taken his hand. I might have led him immediately into placid waters. But I was I—unfeeling, like all lads: blind, too, reprehensible, deserving of blame. In all my life—and, as it happens (of no merit of my own, but of his), it has thus far been spent seeking to give help and comfort to such as need it—never, never, in the diligent course of it, has an opportunity so momentous occurred. I wish—oh, I wish—he might once again need me! To lads—and to men—and to frivolous maids—and to beggars and babies and cripples and evil persons—and to all sorts and conditions of human kind! Who knows to whom the stricken soul—downcast whether of sin or sorrow—may appeal? Herein is justification—the very key to heaven, with which one may unlock the door and enter, claiming bliss by right, defiant of God Himself, if need were: “I have sinned, in common with all men, O God, but I have sought to help such as were in sorrow, whether of sin or the misfortunes incident to life in the pit below, which is the world. You dare not cast me out!” Oh, men and women, lads and maids, I speak because of the wretchedness of my dear folk, out of their sorrow, which is common to us all, but here, in this barren place, is unrelieved, not hidden. Take the hand stretched out! And watch: lest in the great confusion this hand appear—and disappear. If there be sin, here it is: that the hand wavered, beseeching, within reach of such as were on solid ground, and was not grasped.
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, hushing 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?”