Glengarry Schooldays [52]
end of the first day there was established between them a solid basis of friendship.
Old Donald Finch was no cheerful companion for Hughie, but it was to Hughie a relief, more than anything else, that he was not much with either Thomas or Billy Jack.
"You're tired," he ventured, in answer to a deep sigh from the old man, toward the close of the day.
"No, laddie," replied the old man, "I know not that I am working. The burden of toil is the least of all our burdens." And then, after a pause, he added, "It is a terrible thing, is sin."
To an equal in age the old man would never have ventured this confidence, but to Hughie, to his own surprise, he found it easy to talk.
"A terrible thing," he repeated, "and it will always be finding you out."
Hughie listened to him with a fearful sinking of heart, thinking of himself and his sin.
"Yes," repeated the old man, with awful solemnity, "it will come up with you at last."
"But," ventured Hughie, timidly, "won't God forgive? Won't he ever forget?"
The old man looked at him, leaning upon his hoe.
"Yes, he will forgive. But for those who have had great privileges, and who have sinned against light--I will not say."
The fear deepened in Hughie's heart.
"Do you mean that God will not forgive a man who has had a good chance, an elder, or a minister, or--or--a minister's son, say, like me?"
There was something in Hughie's tone that startled the old man. He glanced at Hughie's face.
"What am I saying?" he cried. "It is of myself I am thinking, boy, and of no minister or minister's son."
But Hughie stood looking at him, his face showing his terrible anxiety. God and sin were vivid realities to him.
"Yes, yes," said the old man to himself, "it is a great gospel. 'As far as the east is distant from the west.' 'And plenteous redemption is ever found with him.'"
"But, do you think," said Hughie, in a low voice, "God will tell all our sins? Will he make them known?"
"God forbid!" cried the old man. "'And their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more.' 'The depths of the sea.' No, no, boy, he will surely forget, and he will not be proclaiming them."
It was a strange picture. The old man leaning upon the top of his hoe looking over at the lad, the gloom of his face irradiated with a momentary gleam of hope, and the boy looking back at him with almost breathless eagerness.
"It would be great," said Hughie, at last, "if he would forget."
"Yes," said the old man, the gleam in his face growing brighter, "'If we confess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us,' and forgiving with him is forgetting. Ah, yes, it is a great gospel," he continued, and standing there he lifted up his hand and broke into a kind of chant in Gaelic, of which Hughie could catch no meaning, but the exalted look on the old man's face was translation enough.
"Must we always tell?" said Hughie, after the old man had ceased.
"What are you saying, laddie?"
"I say must we always tell our sins--I mean to people?"
The old man thought a moment. "It is not always good to be talking about our sins to people. That is for God to hear. But we must be ready to make right what is wrong."
"Yes, yes," said Hughie, eagerly, "of course one would be glad to do that."
The old man gave him one keen glance, and began hoeing again.
"Ye'd better be asking ye're mother about that. She will know."
"No, no," said Hughie, "I can't."
The old man paused in his work, looked at the boy for a moment or two, and then went on working again.
"Speak to my woman," he said, after a few strokes of his hoe. "She's a wonderful wise woman." And Hughie wished that he dared.
During the days of the planting they became great friends, and to their mutual good. The mother's keen eyes noted the change both in Hughie and in her husband, and was glad for it. It was she that suggested to Billy Jack that he needed help in the back pasture with the stones. Billy Jack, quick to take her meaning, eagerly insisted that help he must have, indeed he could
Old Donald Finch was no cheerful companion for Hughie, but it was to Hughie a relief, more than anything else, that he was not much with either Thomas or Billy Jack.
"You're tired," he ventured, in answer to a deep sigh from the old man, toward the close of the day.
"No, laddie," replied the old man, "I know not that I am working. The burden of toil is the least of all our burdens." And then, after a pause, he added, "It is a terrible thing, is sin."
To an equal in age the old man would never have ventured this confidence, but to Hughie, to his own surprise, he found it easy to talk.
"A terrible thing," he repeated, "and it will always be finding you out."
Hughie listened to him with a fearful sinking of heart, thinking of himself and his sin.
"Yes," repeated the old man, with awful solemnity, "it will come up with you at last."
"But," ventured Hughie, timidly, "won't God forgive? Won't he ever forget?"
The old man looked at him, leaning upon his hoe.
"Yes, he will forgive. But for those who have had great privileges, and who have sinned against light--I will not say."
The fear deepened in Hughie's heart.
"Do you mean that God will not forgive a man who has had a good chance, an elder, or a minister, or--or--a minister's son, say, like me?"
There was something in Hughie's tone that startled the old man. He glanced at Hughie's face.
"What am I saying?" he cried. "It is of myself I am thinking, boy, and of no minister or minister's son."
But Hughie stood looking at him, his face showing his terrible anxiety. God and sin were vivid realities to him.
"Yes, yes," said the old man to himself, "it is a great gospel. 'As far as the east is distant from the west.' 'And plenteous redemption is ever found with him.'"
"But, do you think," said Hughie, in a low voice, "God will tell all our sins? Will he make them known?"
"God forbid!" cried the old man. "'And their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more.' 'The depths of the sea.' No, no, boy, he will surely forget, and he will not be proclaiming them."
It was a strange picture. The old man leaning upon the top of his hoe looking over at the lad, the gloom of his face irradiated with a momentary gleam of hope, and the boy looking back at him with almost breathless eagerness.
"It would be great," said Hughie, at last, "if he would forget."
"Yes," said the old man, the gleam in his face growing brighter, "'If we confess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us,' and forgiving with him is forgetting. Ah, yes, it is a great gospel," he continued, and standing there he lifted up his hand and broke into a kind of chant in Gaelic, of which Hughie could catch no meaning, but the exalted look on the old man's face was translation enough.
"Must we always tell?" said Hughie, after the old man had ceased.
"What are you saying, laddie?"
"I say must we always tell our sins--I mean to people?"
The old man thought a moment. "It is not always good to be talking about our sins to people. That is for God to hear. But we must be ready to make right what is wrong."
"Yes, yes," said Hughie, eagerly, "of course one would be glad to do that."
The old man gave him one keen glance, and began hoeing again.
"Ye'd better be asking ye're mother about that. She will know."
"No, no," said Hughie, "I can't."
The old man paused in his work, looked at the boy for a moment or two, and then went on working again.
"Speak to my woman," he said, after a few strokes of his hoe. "She's a wonderful wise woman." And Hughie wished that he dared.
During the days of the planting they became great friends, and to their mutual good. The mother's keen eyes noted the change both in Hughie and in her husband, and was glad for it. It was she that suggested to Billy Jack that he needed help in the back pasture with the stones. Billy Jack, quick to take her meaning, eagerly insisted that help he must have, indeed he could