Burned Bridges, Bertrand W. Sinclair [ready to read books .txt] 📗

Air. But Now That The Wind And The Sun Had Somewhat Turned

His Fair Skin And Brought Out A Goodly Crop Of Freckles,  Now That The

Vigor Of His Movements And The Healthy Perspiration Had Rumpled Up His

Reddish-Brown Hair And Put A Wave In It,  He Could--Standing Up On His

Log--Easily Have Passed For A Husky Woodsman; Until Some Experienced Eye

Observed Him Make Such Sorry Work Of A Woodsman's Task. He Had Acquired

No Skill With The Axe. That Takes Time. But He Made Vigorous Endeavor,

And He Was Beginning To Feel Strength Flow Through Him,  To Realize It As

A Potential Blessing. Now That The Soreness Was Working Out Of His

Sinews It Gave Him A Peculiar Elation To Lay Hold Of A Log-End,  To Heave

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 34

Until His Arms And Back Grew Rigid,  And To Feel The Heavy Weight Move.

That Exultant Sense Of Physical Power Was Quite New And Rather Puzzling

To Him. He Could Not Understand Why He Enjoyed Chopping Logs And Moving

Them About,  And Yet Was Prone To Grow Moody,  To Be Full Of Disquieting

Perplexities When He Sat Down To Think.

 

He Had Been At Work For Perhaps Two Hours. He Was Resting. To Be

Explicit,  He Was Standing On A Fallen Tree. Between His Feet There Was A

Notch Cut Half-Way Through The Wood. In This White Gash The Blade Of His

Axe Was Driven Solidly,  And He Rested His Hands On The Rigid Haft While

He Stood Drawing Gulps Of Forest-Scented Air Into His Lungs.

 

Mr. Thompson Was Not Gifted With Eyes In The Back Of His Head. His

Hearing Was Keen Enough,  But The Soft,  Turfy Earth Absorbed Footfalls,

Especially When That Foot Was Shod With A Buckskin Moccasin. So He Did

Not See Sophie Carr,  Nor Hear Her Until A Thought That Was Running In

His Mind Slipped Off The End Of His Tongue.

 

"This Is Going To Make A Terrible Amount Of Labor."

 

He Said This Aloud,  In A Matter-Of-Fact Tone.

 

"And A Terrible Waste Of Labor," Sophie Answered Him.

 

He Looked Quickly Over One Shoulder,  Saw Her Standing There,  Got Down

Off His Log--Blushing A Little At His Comparative Nakedness. It Seemed

To Him That He Must Appear Shockingly Nude,  Since The Upper Part Of His

Body Was But Thinly Covered By A Garment That Opened Wide Over His

Breast. He Felt A Good Deal Like A Shy Girl First Appearing On The Beach

In An Abbreviated Bathing Suit. But Sophie Seemed Unconscious Of His

Embarrassment,  Or The Cause Of It. However,  Mr. Thompson Picked Up His

Coat,  And Felt More At Ease When He Had Slipped It On. He Sat Down,

Still Breathing Heavily From His Recent Exertions.

 

"Why Do You Say That?" He Asked.

 

"Oh,  Well," She Said--And Left The Sentence Unfinished,  Save By An

Outward Motion Of Her Hands That Might Have Meant Anything. But She

Smiled,  And Mr. Thompson Observed That She Had Fine,  White,  Even Teeth.

Each Time He Saw Her Some Salient Personal Feature Seemed To Claim His

Attention. To Be Sure He Had Seen Other Girls With Good Teeth And Red

Lips And Other Physical Charms Perhaps As Great As Sophie Carr's. But

These Things Had Never Riveted His Attention. There Was Something About

This Girl That Quickened Every Fiber Of His Being. And Even While She

Made Him Always Acutely Conscious Of Her Bodily Presence,  He Was A

Little Bit Afraid Of Her. He Had Swift,  Discomforting Visions Of Her

Standing Afar Beckoning To Him,  And Of Himself Unable To Resist,  No

Matter What The Penalty. She Stirred Up Things In His Mind That Made Him

Blush. He Was Conscious Of A Desire To Touch Her Hand,  To Kiss Her. He

Found Himself Totally Unable To Close The Gates Of His Mind Against Such

Thoughts When She Was Near Him. And It Was Self-Generated Within Him.

Sophie Carr Was Never More Than Impersonally Pleasant To Him. Sometimes

She Was Utterly Indifferent. Often She Said Things About His Calling

That Made Him Wince.

 

"Tell Me," Thompson Said Abruptly,  After A Momentary Silence,  "How It

Happens That The Men Who Have Been Here Before Me Left No Trace Of

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 35

Any--Any--Well,  Anything? There Have Been Other Missionaries. They Had

Funds. They Were Stationed Here. What Did They Do? I Have Been Going To

Ask Your Father. I Daresay You Can Tell Me Yourself."

 

The Girl Laughed,  Whether At The Question Or At His Earnestness He Could

Not Say.

 

"They Did Nothing," She Answered In An Amused Tone. "What Could They Do?

You Haven't Begun To Realize Yet What A Difficult Job You've Tackled.

The Others Came Here,  Stayed Awhile,  Threw Up Their Hands And Went Away.

Their Idea Of Doing Good Seemed To Consist Of Having A Ready-Made Church

And A Ready-Made Congregation,  And To Preach Nice Little,  Ready-Made

Religiosities On A Sunday. You Can't Preach Anything To A People Who

Don't Understand A Word You Say,  And Who Are Mostly Too Busy With More

Pressing Affairs To Listen If They Did Understand. And You See For

Yourself There's No Church."

 

"But What Did These Fellows Do?" He Persisted. That Had Been Puzzling

Him.

 

"Nothing," She Said Scornfully "Nothing But Sit Around And Complain

About The Loneliness And The Coarse Food And The Discouraging Outlook.

Then They'd Finally Go Away--Go Back To Where They Came From,  I

Suppose."

 

"The Last Man," Thompson Ventured Doubtfully. "The Factor At Pachugan

Told Me Mr. Carr Assaulted Him. That Seems Rather Odd To Me,  After What

I've Seen Of Your Father. Was It So?"

 

"The Last Missionary Wasn't What You'd Call A Good Man,  In Any Sense,"

Sophie Answered Frankly. "He Was Here Most Of One Summer,  And Toward The

Last He Showed Himself Up Pretty Badly. He Developed A Nasty Trick Of

Annoying Little Native Girls. Dad Thrashed Him Properly. Dad Took It As

A Sort Of Reflection On Us. Even The Indians Don't Approve Of That Sort

Of Thing. He Left In A Hurry,  After That."

 

Thompson Felt His Face Burn.

 

"Things Like That Made A Bad Impression," He Returned Diffidently. "I

Suppose In All Walks Of Life There Are Wolves In Sheep's Clothing. I

Hope It Hasn't Prejudiced You Against Churchmen In General."

 

"One Single Incident?" She Smiled. "That Wouldn't Be Very Logical,  Would

It? No. We're Not So Intolerant. I Don't Suppose Dad Would Actually Have

Gone The Length Of Thrashing Him,  If The Preacher Hadn't Taken A High

And Mighty Tone As A Sort Of Bluff. That Particular Preacher Happened To

Be A Local Nuisance. I Suppose In A Settled,  Well-Organized Community,

Public Opinion And Convention Is A Check On Such Men. They Keep Within

Bounds Because There's A Heavy Penalty If They Don't. Up Here Where Law

And Conventions And So On Practically Don't Exist,  Men Of A Certain

Stamp Aren't Long In Reverting To Pure Animalism. It's Natural Enough,  I

Dare Say. Dad Would Be The Last One To Set Himself Up As A Critic Of Any

One's Personal Morality. But It Isn't Very Nice,  Especially For

Preachers,  Who Come Here Posing As The Representatives Of All That Is

Good And Pure And Holy."

 

"You Get Terribly Sarcastic At Times,  Miss Carr," Thompson Complained.

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 36

"A Man Can Preach The Gospel Without Losing His Manhood."

 

"If He Had Any Clear Conception Of Manhood I Don't See How He Could

Devote Himself To Preaching As A Profession," She Said Composedly. "Of

Course,  It's Perhaps An Excellent Means Of Livelihood,  But Rather A

Parasitic Means,  Don't You Think?"

 

"When Christ Came Among Men He Was Reviled And Despised," Mr. Thompson

Declared Impressively.

 

"Do You Consider Yourself The Prototype Of Christ?" The Girl Inquired

Mockingly. "Why,  If The Man Of Galilee Could Be Reincarnated The First

Thing He Would Attack Would Be The Official Expounders Of Christianity,

With Their Creeds And Formalisms,  Their Temples And Their Self-Seeking.

The Nazarene Was A Radical. The Average Preacher Is An Out-And-Out

Reactionary."

 

"How Do You Know?" He Challenged Boldly. "According To Your Own Account

Of Your Life So Far,  You Have Never Had Opportunity To Find The Truth Or

Falsity Of Such A Sweeping Statement. You've Always Lived--" He Looked

About The Enfolding Woods--"How Can One Know What The World Outside Of

Lake Athabasca Is,  If One Has Never Been There?"

 

She Laughed.

 

"One Can't Know Positively," She Said. "Not From Personal Experience.

But One Can Read Eagerly,  And One Can Think About What One Reads,  And

One Can Draw Pretty Fair Conclusions From History,  From What Wise Men,

Real Thinkers,  Have Written About This Big World One Has Never Seen. And

The Official Exponents Of Theology Show Up Rather Poorly As Helpful

Social Factors,  So Far As My Study Of Sociology Has Gone."

 

"You Seem To Have A Grudge Against The Cloth," Thompson Hazarded A

Shrewd Guess. "I Wonder Why?"

 

"I'll Tell You Why," The Girl Said--And She Laughed A Little

Self-Consciously. "My Reason Tells Me It's A Silly Way To Feel. I Can

Never Quite Consider Theology And The Preachers From The Same

Dispassionate Plane That Dad Can. There's A Foolish Sense Of Personal

Grievance. Dad Had It Once,  Too,  But He Got Over It Long Ago. I Never

Have. Perhaps You'll Understand If I Tell You. My Mother Was A Vain,

Silly,  Emotional Sort Of Person,  It Seems,  With Some Wonderful Capacity

For Attracting Men. Dad Was Passionately Fond Of Her. When I Was About

Three Years Old My Foolish Mother Ran Away With A Young Minister. After

Living With Him About Six Months,  Wandering About From Place To Place,

She Drowned Herself."

 

Thompson Listened To This Recital Of Human Frailty In Wonder At The Calm

Way In Which Sophie Carr Could Speak To Him,  A Stranger,  Of A Tragedy So

Intimate. She Stopped A Second.

 

"Dad Was All Broken Up About It," She Continued. "He Loved My Mother

With All Her Weaknesses--And He's A Man With A Profound Knowledge Of And

Tolerance For Human Weaknesses. I Daresay He Would Have Been Quite

Willing To Consider The Past A Blank If She Had Found Out She Cared Most

For Him,  And Had Come Back. But,  As I Said,  She Drowned Herself. We