“I’ve gone an’ tol’ Judy,” says he, “lest she learn t’ love ye for what ye was not.”
’Twas no matter to me....
This, then, was the heart of my mystery! I had been fed and adorned and taught and reared in luxury by the 338 murder of seven men and the merciless blackmail of an ambitious villain. What had fed me, warmed me, clothed me had been the product of this horrible rascality. And my father was the murderer, whom I had dreamed a hero, and my foster-father was the persecutor, whom I had loved for his kindly virtue. And paid for!––all paid for in my father’s crime and damnation. This––all this––to make a gentleman of the ill-born, club-footed young whelp of a fishing skipper! I laughed as I walked away from this old Nick Top: laughed to recall my progress through these nineteen years––the proud, self-righteous stalking of my way.
’Twas a pretty figure I had cut, thinks I, with my rings and London clothes, in the presence of the Honorable, with whom I had dealt in pride and anger! ’Twas a pretty figure I had cut, all my life––the whelp of a ruined, prostituted skipper: the issue of a murderous barratry! What protection had the defenceless child that had been I against these machinations? What protest the boy, growing in guarded ignorance? What appeal the man in love, confronted by his origin and shameful fostering? Enraged by this, what I thought of my uncle’s misguided object and care I may not here set down, because of the bitterness and injustice of the reflections; nay, but I dare not recall the mood and wicked resentment of that time.
And presently I came to the shore of the sea, where I sat down on the rock, staring out upon the waters. ’Twas grown dark then, of a still, religious night, with the black sea lapping the rocks, infinitely continuing in 339 restlessness, and a multitude of stars serenely twinkling in the uttermost depths of the great sky. ’Twas of this I thought, I recall, but cannot tell why: that the sea was forever young, unchanging in all the passions of youth, from the beginning of time to the end of it; that the mountains were lifted high, of old, passionless, inscrutable, of unfeeling snow and rock, dwelling above the wish of the world; that the sweep of prairie, knowing no resentment, was fruitful to the weakest touch; that the forests fell without complaint; that the desert, hopeless, aged, contemptuous of the aspirations of this day, was of immutable bitterness, seeking some love long lost to it nor ever to be found again; but that the sea was as it had been when God poured it forth––young and lusty and passionate––the only thing in all the fleeting world immune from age and death and desuetude.
’Twas strange enough; but I knew, thank God! when the rocking, crooning sea took my heart as a harp in its hands, that all the sins and errors of earth were of creative intention and most beautiful, as are all the works of the God of us all. Nay, but, thinks I, the sins of life are more lovely than the righteous accomplishments. Removed by the starlit sky, wherein He dwells––removed because of its tender distance and beauty and placidity, because of its compassion and returning gift of faith, removed by the vast, feeling territory of sensate waters, whereupon He walks, because they express, eternally, His wrath and loving kindness––carried far away, in the quiet night, I looked back, and I understood, as never before––nor can I ever hope to know 340 again––that God, being artist as we cannot be, had with the life of the world woven threads of sin and error to make it a pattern of supernal beauty, that His purpose might be fulfilled, His eyes delighted.
And ’twas with the healing of night and starry sky and the soft lullaby of the sea upon my spirit––’twas with this wide, clear vision of life, the gift of understanding, as concerned its exigencies––that I arose and went to my uncle....
I met Judith on the way: the maid was hid, waiting for me, in the deep shadow of the lilacs and the perfume of them, which I shall never forget, that bordered the gravelled path of our garden.