How Deacon Tubman and Parson Whitney Kept New Year's Part 8

"In any other way?" queried the man.

"Yis,--in self-defence."

"Any other cause?" persisted the stranger.

"Not as a rule," answered the trapper.

After this there was a silence. The girl's head dropped into her two palms and for an instant her frame shook, as one contesting the pa.s.sage of a strong feeling that insists on expression. The three men made no motion, but sat silently gazing into the fire.

For several minutes the silence lasted. There are two living that will never forget that silence. Then the man lifted his face and said,--

"Old trapper, have you ever known remorse?"

"I can't say I ever did," answered the trapper; "though I've felt a leetle oneasy arter dealin' with the thievin' vagabonds whose tracks I've found on the line of my traps. It has seemed to me, sometimes, in the evenin', in thinkin' the matter over, that perhaps a leetle less bullet and a leetle more scriptur' might have did jest as well. But a man is apt to be a leetle ha'sh in his anger; but I have an idee that the Lord makes some allowance for a man's doin's when he's a good deal r'iled. That's where the marcy comes in. Yis, that's where the marcy comes in; isn't it, boy?" and the old man looked at Herbert.

"There is certainly where we need the mercy to come in," answered Herbert; "but it were better that we acted so that mercy need not be shown."

The man listened to Herbert's reply with an expression of strong a.s.sent on his countenance, then he turned to the trapper.

"You say, old man, that you never knew remorse. Happy has your life been because of it; and happy shall your life be to its close. I have known remorse. It is a fearful knowledge,--as fearful as the knowledge of h.e.l.l. Woe to the man that does an evil deed. That instant he is doomed; doomed to anguish. His divinity punishes him. Within his bosom the great tribunal is instantly set up. The judge takes his seat. The witnesses are summoned; and the whole universe swarms to the trial. His memory is a torment; and all the forces of his mind suddenly concentrate in memory,--the memory of one deed, or of many deeds, even as his sin has been sole or manifold. What torment, old man, is like the torment of one whose memory is confined wholly to his evil deeds!"

No one made any reply. The anguish of the man's speech made response impossible.

"Before I did the deed," he continued, after a pause, "my memory took knowledge of all sweet things; of all dear faces I have ever seen; of all generous and blessed deeds I had ever done. But after that I could remember but one thing,--the murderer; only one face,--the face of him I killed, and all my life, and the glory of it, was thrown into black eclipse by that one terrible act. Before I did the deed Nature was a joy to me, but now in every star I see his countenance looking down upon me.

In every flower I see his still, cold face. The winds bear to me his voice. The water of those rapids"--and the man stretched his hand out towards the flowing river--"sounds to me like the rattle in his throat as he lay dying. How shall I find release, old man? How quit myself of this terrible curse?" and the man's words ended in a groan.

"The mercy of the Lord be great," replied the trapper; "greater than any deed of guilt did by mortal; great enough to cover you, friend, and your misdoin', as a mother covers the error of her child with her forgiveness."

"I know the mercy of the Lord is great," answered the man, "I know His forgiveness covers all; but the old law--old as the world, old as guilt and justice--the law of life for life and blood for blood,--has never been repealed. And this is the one comfort left for the n.o.ble: that however great the guilt, however wicked the deed, the atonement can be as great as the sin. He who dies pays all debts. He who has sent one to the grave and goes to the grave voluntarily, goes into the arms of mercy. I know not where else, with all his searching, man may surely find it."

Again there was silence. Above, the stars shone warmly through the dusky gloom. The rapids roared, falling hoa.r.s.ely through the darkness. A moaning ran along the pine-tops; the firelight flamed and flickered, and the flames flashed the four faces into sight that were grouped around the brands. At length the trapper said:

"What is it ye have in yer heart to do, friend?"

"I took a life," answered the man; "I must give one in return. I took a life and my life is forfeited. This is my condemnation, and I p.r.o.nounce it on myself. My judge is not above; my judge is within. In this the world finds protection, and in this the sinner finds release from sin.

There is no other way; at least, no other way so perfect. One man was great enough to die for the sins of others. They who would rise to the level of his life must be great enough to lay down their life for their own sins. This is justice; and out of such true justice blooms the perfect mercy." To this the man added thoughtfully, "There is but one objection."

"What is the objection?" asked Herbert. "What is the objection, if one be great enough to make so great a sacrifice?"

"The objection," answered the man, "is found in this: it is so deep a sin to kill; it is so easy a thing to die--for what is death? The ignorant dread it because they do not a.n.a.lyze it; their lack of thoughtfulness makes them cowardly; for death is going out of bondage into liberty. He who pa.s.ses through the dark gate finds himself, when he has pa.s.sed, standing in the cloudless sunshine. In dying, the sorrowful become glad; the small become greater; and if they die rightly, the sinful become sinless. If a great motive prompts us to death, it is the perfect regeneration. Entering thus the new life, man is born anew. And so in punishment the great law of mercy stands revealed, and sin leads up to sinlessness. In such travail of soul, he who suffers through suffering is satisfied."

"It is sublime philosophy," exclaimed Herbert, "but few are great enough to practice it."

"Rather, sir," exclaimed the man, "few are knowing enough to accept it.

The eyes of men, through their ignorance, are blinded by fear and they see not the delivering gates though they stand facing the open pa.s.sage."

"Life is sweet."

The words fell from the lips of Herbert as if they spoke themselves.

"To the innocent, life is sweet," answered the man, "but to the guilty, life is bitterness. The world was not made for the guilty. The beauties and glories of it were not for them. The universe is not sustained for them. Only for the good do things exist. The b.r.e.a.s.t.s of life are full; but their nourishment is not for guilty lips to draw. I have seen the time when life was sweet. I have lived to see the time when life is bitter. Through death I go out of bitterness into sweetness. This is the mercy that is unto all and which all can take--take freely. Some get it through another--all might get it through themselves."

"It is a violent deed to kill one's self," said the trapper.

"You mistake," answered the man, "there is a coa.r.s.e, rude way; there is a fine and n.o.ble way. 'I have power,' said the Man, 'to lay down my life and I have power to take it again.' Do you not think, old trapper, that a man can die when he wills?"

"I don't understand ye," answered the trapper.

"The soul rules the body," replied the stranger. "The soul is not bound to the body; it lives in it as a man lives in his house. My body is only my environment. I can quit it at will. I can go out of it."

"Do you mean to say," asked Herbert, "that we can leave our bodies through determination of purpose and mental decision?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_The four sat in silence by the fire._"]

"There have been such cases," answered the man, "and such cases there might be continually. If the relations between the soul and the body are recognized and the supreme authority of the one over the other allowed full action, the soul can do anything it pleases. It can come and it can go. This is my faith."

While the foregoing conversation was being conducted, the girl had remained silent. Herbert sat opposite to her; and as the firelight flamed her face into sight, he could not but note the expression of it.

The look of her face was that of one who was listening to what she had heard before--perhaps many times before, and which, upon the hearing, she had combated and was determined to continue to combat. And at this point she suddenly spoke up.

"I think, sir,"--and she lifted her eyes to the face of the man,--"that the living should live for the living rather than die for the dead; for the dead have no wants, neither of the body nor of the heart, neither of the mind nor the soul; for, if they want, G.o.d feeds them. But the living want and crave and have deep needs and G.o.d feeds not at all, unless through us who live; and it is our duty to do, and not to die."

The words were clearly and slowly spoken, spoken in a quiet but determined tone. The old trapper raised his face and looked at the girl, as if surprised at the wisdom of her speech. Herbert was already looking at her. The man slowly turned his face towards her, and said:

"Mary, we have argued that point before."

The tone in which he spoke was not one of rebuke, and yet it conveyed the idea that the point was settled and was not to be reopened. The girl waited a moment respectfully, as if she felt profound deference for the other's character and would not willingly oppose his wish, and then she said:

"I know, sir, we have discussed it before; but it is not settled, and never can be settled; for it sets in comparison the value of two lives--the one that was and the one that is; and I say that there are lives--of which yours is one--that belong to others and cannot be disposed of as if they were a selfish thing. And life is a truer atonement for sin than death. You owe more than one debt, and you have no right to pay the one, however great it is, if by the paying of that you leave the others unpaid."

"Friend," said the trapper, "the girl speaks wisdom; leastwise she brings matter into the council which men of gravity should not overlook. The livin' sartinly have claims. What can you say to her speech?"

For a moment the man made no reply, and then he said:

"My philosophy is based upon a sentiment--a sentiment born of conscience, and conscience makes duty for us all. There is no reasoning against conscience. It is the voice of G.o.d--the only G.o.d we have. My conscience tells me that there is but one atonement that I can make.

There is no election. I must do it."

"What good," said Herbert, addressing the man, "what good will you do by dying?"

"I shall satisfy myself," said the man.

"And what right have you to satisfy yourself in such a matter?"

exclaimed the girl. "What right have any of us to satisfy ourselves?

What right have we to be selfish in our death any more than in our life?

Oh, sir, if you saw rightly, you would see that you had no right to satisfy yourself in this dreadful way. You should satisfy others. They need you even as the poor need the rich; as the weak need the strong; as those who are p.r.o.ne, because they cannot lift themselves, need one who is strong enough to lift them. It is not heroic to die unless the full object of life is met by the dying. It is heroic to live, because it is harder than dying. Even death dedicated to atonement can be a greater sin than the deed which one would atone."

"I know not how the girl has such wisdom," said the trapper, "for she be young, and yit she sartinly seems to me to have the right of it. I know not who ye be, nor how many look to ye for help; but ef ye be one that can help, and there be many that need yer help, I sartinly conceit that ye should live--live to help 'em."

"You say right! You say right, old man!" exclaimed the girl. "His life is not a common life. It represents such power and faculty and opportunity, and I may say such devotion to the many, that it does not belong to him, and may not therefore be disposed of as if he owned it himself and had the right to do with it as he pleased."