Masterman and Son

by W. J. Dawson

There was a certain Sunday evening when Mrs. Masterman surprised him, reading in his office. The house was very still, and he was reading aloud in a grave and solemn voice.

He looked up as she entered, and, instead of frowning on her intrusion, motioned her to silence, and went on reading.

"Listen to this," he said. "I thought I knew the Bible, but here's something I've never met before. The man that wrote this was a wise fellow.

"'What hath pride profited us? Or what good hath riches with our vaunting brought us? All those things are passed away like a shadow, and as a host that hasted by; and as a ship that passeth over the waves of the water, which, when it is gone by, the trace thereof cannot be found, neither the pathway of the keel in the waves; or, as when a bird hath flown through the air, there is no token of her way to be found, but the light air being beaten with the stroke of her wings, and parted with the violent noise and motion of them, or passed through, and therein afterwards no sign where she went is to be found; or like as, when an arrow is shot at a mark, it parteth the air, which immediately cometh together again, so that a man cannot know where it went through: even so we in like manner, as soon as we were born, began to draw to our end.'

"There's a lot of truth in that," he remarked. "As soon as we are born we begin to draw near to our end. That's mighty true. It kind of makes a man feel small, though, as if nothing mattered. It makes a man feel as though God laughed at him. And it makes me feel, too, as if it would be rather a good thing to be done with it all. If I could be a boy again I wouldn't say. I believe I should think it worth while being kicked and beaten again, just to feel as I did then. But, by the time a man is going on for sixty, he's about tired of it all. Doesn't seem worth while doing anything then, except to get into bed and go to sleep."

He paused a moment, as if to swallow some choking bitterness, and then went on again in the same low tone:

"There's few men that ever had a harder time than I did when I was a boy. You never knew my father? No, and a good job too. There's no question he was a brute. But somehow, when I heard that he was dead, it came to me what it all meant. He'd never had a fair chance, never had his real share in life, never had enough of anything, except, maybe, drink, and of that he'd had too much. Well, that day when I pictured him lying there all white and quiet, I kind of understood what the drinking meant too. He was in a rage against life, wanted to forget the way he'd been treated, and that's why he drank. I reckon that's why most men drink, just to forget. And I said to myself, 'Well, I don't want to forget. I'll remember everything the world did to him, and I'll pay it back, blow for blow, and bruise for bruise. I'll get my fingers into the world's throat before I've done, and I'll get what I want.' And I've done it too. And now the queer thing is, it doesn't somehow seem worth while. Things you've wanted all your life don't seem what you thought 'em when once you've got them. Seems as if you'd paid too dear for them, and been cheated after all. Your good time is when you want 'em, and can't get them, and, when you've got them, you wonder what made you want 'em. That's what I meant when I said it seemed as though God laughed at us. I believe I'd laugh myself if I could see it far enough off. All the fuss and bother, and rampaging up and down, and then a quiet old fellow puts his hand on your shoulder, and says, 'What hath pride profited us?' and goes on to tell you all you've done don't amount to a row of pins, and you know it's true, too. That's the thing that hurts—it's true, and you know it, and feel like the worst kind of fool."

He spoke musingly, in a voice of extraordinary softness and sad deliberation. His wife listened wonderingly. The passage he had read, whose sombre wisdom contradicted every purpose of his own conduct, the impression it produced of the vanity of life, and his own entire gravity, tenderness, and sincerity, as he read the solemn words, wrought in her complete amazement. In all her long knowledge of her husband she had never known him in this mood. A woman whose habitual thoughts moved on a more earthly level would have found the mood ominous; she would have shuddered in every fibre of her affection, and have imagined the slow beating of the wings of death upon the quiet air. But, for her, all that was ominous in the scene was eclipsed by an overmastering sense of spiritual gratitude. Through long years she had prayed for such an hour, and prayed against hope. Had it come at last, this hour of wisdom, this impartation of a higher light, this sudden softening and sweetening of a nature whose harsh earthiness had been to her a cause of unspeakable distress?

"O Archie," she cried, "how glad I am to have you speak like that! Let the world go, Archie dear, before it lets you go. Let us go from this hateful life, you and I. If we could only be poor again, and live in some quiet place, we could be happy yet. You've never got any happiness yet out of all your money that I can see, and you never will. Can't we start again, dear, and won't you forgive Arthur, and have him back?"

She was on her knees beside him, her head bowed, or she would have seen the swift hardening of his face.