I passed 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 friendship. 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, God 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 God 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’ yesterday is the straight course—the righteous deed—o’ to-day. ’Tis only out o’ sin that sweetness is born. That’s just what sin is for! The righteous, Davy, dear,” he said, in all sincerity, “are not lovable, not trustworthy. The devil nets un by the hundred quintal, for ’tis such easy fishin’; but sinners—such as sin agin their will—the Lard loves an’ gathers in. They who sin must suffer, Davy, an’ only such as suffer can know the dear Lard’s love. God be thanked for sin,” he said, looking up, inspired. “Let the righteous be damned—they deserve it. Give me the company o’ sinners!”
“Is you sure?” I asked, confounded by this strange doctrine.
“I thank God,” he answered, composedly, “that I have sinned—and suffered.”
“Sure,” said I, “you ought t’ know, for you’ve lived so awful long.”