Tommy had never willingly kissed anyone in his life—he had not known a mother—but now, without thought or hesitation—almost without consciousness, for he was still very much a child—he laid his arms about her neck and kissed her cheek—once, twice.
But what he said to her only the great night, and the old plough, know.
[XVII]
IN WHICH TOMMY TAKES THE UPLAND ROAD
If I have not, so far, touched upon Tommy's religious life it is chiefly for the reason that, to me, at this time, it was practically as a sealed book.
Nor had I ever talked with him on these matters. And this for two reasons—one of them being, no doubt, the natural hesitation of the average Englishman to lay his hands upon the veil of his neighbour's sanctuary, and one, a dawning doubt in my mind as to the capacity of my own creed to meet the requirements of Tommy's nature. For, to me, at this time, the idea of God was of One in some distant Olympus watching His long-formulated laws work out their appointed end—a Being infinitely beneficent, and revealed in all nature and beauty, but, spiritually, entirely remote.
And my religion had been that of a reverent habit and a peaceable moderation, and to live contented with my fellows.