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

Level With His Own.

 

"I'm So Sorry,  Big Man," She Whispered,  In A Small,  Choked Voice. "It

Hurts Me Too."

 

He Felt The Warm Moist Touch Of Her Lips On His Cheek,  The Faint

Exhalation Of Her Breath,  And While His Arms Reached Swiftly,

Instinctively To Grasp And Hold Her Close,  She Was Gone. And This Time

She Did Not Come Back.

 

Chapter 6 (A Man's Job For A Minister) Pg 55

Having Thus Received A Sad Jolt Through The Medium Of His Affections,

Mr. Thompson,  Like Countless Numbers Of Human Beings Before Him,  Set

About Gathering Himself Together. He Did A Tremendous Lot Of Thinking

About Things In General,  About Himself And Sophie Carr In Particular

Chapter 6 (A Man's Job For A Minister) Pg 56

Moping In That Isolated Cabin His Mind Took On A Sort Of Abnormal

Activity. He Could Not Even Stop Thinking When He Wanted To Stop. He

Would Lie Awake In The Silent Darkness Long After He Should Have Been

Asleep,  Going Over His Narrow And Uneventful Existence,  The Unwelcome

And Anguished Present,  The Future That Was Nothing But A Series Of Blank

Pages Which He Had Yet To Turn In God Only Knew What Bitterness And

Sorrow. That Was The Way He Gloomily Put It To Himself. He Had Still To

Learn What An Adaptable,  Resilient Organism Man Is. This,  His First

Tentative Brush With Life,  With The Realities Of Pain And Passion,  Had

Left Him Exceedingly Cast Down,  More Than A Little Inclined To

Pessimism.

 

He Experienced Gusts Of Unreasoning Anger At Sophie Carr,  Forgetting,  As

A Man Wounded In His Egotism And Disappointed In His First Passionate

Yearning For A Mate Is Likely To Forget,  That He Had Brought It On

Himself,  That Sophie Had Not Encouraged Him,  Nor Lured Him To His

Undoing,  Nor Given Him Aught To Nourish The Illusion That She Was His

For The Asking.

 

Sometimes He Would Have A Vivid Flash Of Jealousy When He Thought About

Her And Tommy Ashe,  When He Recalled Her Admissions. And He Would Soften

From That Mood,  Twisting His Lips Wryly,  When He Remembered The Pitying

Tenderness Of Her Good-By.

 

He Could Not In The Least Understand The Girl Nor Her Motives,  Any More

Than He Could Understand The Transformation That He Felt Vaguely Was

Taking Place In Himself. She Was Too Wise For Her Years And Her

Experience. There Was A Stinging Truth In Some Of The Things She Said.

And It Was His Fault,  Not Hers,  That They Were Unpalatable Truths. What

Did A Man Like Himself Have To Offer A Girl Like Her? Nothing. She Had

His Measure In Everything But Sheer Brute Strength,  Most Of All In The

Stoutness Of Her Resolution. For Mr. Thompson,  Pondering Soberly,

Realized That If He Gave Free Play To The Feelings Sophie Carr Had

Stirred Up In Him,  There Was No Folly He Was Not Capable Of Committing.

He,  Whose Official Creed It Was To Expound Self-Denial,  Would Have

Followed His Impulses Blindly. He Would Have Married Out Of Hand.

 

And After That,  What?

 

He Could Not See Clearly,  When He Tried To See. He Was No Longer Filled

With The Sublime Faith That A Beneficent Providence Kept Watch And Ward

Over Him,  And All Men. He Was In Fact Now Almost Of The Opinion That

Both Sparrows And Preachers Might Fall And The Great Intelligence

Remain Unperturbed. It Seemed Necessary That A Man Should Do More Than

Have Faith. He Must Imperatively Make Some Conscious,  Intelligent Effort

On His Own Behalf. He Was Especially Of This Opinion Since The Board Of

Home Missions Had Overlooked The Matter Of Forwarding His Quarterly

Salary On Time. The Faith That Moveth Mountains Was Powerless To Conjure

Flour And Sugar And Tea Out Of Those Dusky Woods And Silent

Waterways--At Least Not Without A Canoe And Labor And A Certain

Requisite Medium Of Exchange.

 

No,  He Did Not Blame Sophie Carr For Refusing To Allow Her Judgment To

Be Fogged With Sentiment. He Only Marvelled That She Could Do It Where

He Had Failed. He Could Not Blame Her--Not If His Speech And Activities

Since He Came To Lone Moose Were The Measure Of His Possible

Achievement.

Chapter 6 (A Man's Job For A Minister) Pg 57

He Was Taking Grim,  Unsparing Stock Of Himself,  Of What He Had,  Of What

He Had Accomplished Altogether,  By This Time. It Was Not Much. It Was

Not Even Promising. A Theological Education,  Which,  Compared To The Sort

Of Culture Sam Carr And His Daughter Had Managed To Acquire,  Seemed

Rather Inadequate And One-Sided. They Knew More About The Principles He

Was Supposed To Teach Than He Knew Himself. And Their Knowledge Extended

To Fields Where He Could Not Follow. When He Compared Himself With Tommy

Ashe--Well,  Tommy Was An Oxford Man,  And Although Oxford Had Not

Indelibly Stamped Him,  Still It Had Left Its Mark.

 

These People Had Covered All His Ground--And They Had Gone Exploring

Further In Fields Of General Knowledge While He Sat Gazing Smugly At

His Own Reflection In A Theological Mirror. Upon That Score Certainly

The Count Was Badly Against Him.

 

As For His Worldly Possessions,  When Mr. Thompson Sardonically

Considered Them As A Means Of Supporting A Wife He Was Forced To Admit

That The Provision Would Be Intolerably Meager. His Prospects Included A

Salary That Barely Sufficed For One. It Was Apparent,  He Concluded,  That

The Board Of Home Missions,  Like The Army And Navy,  Calculated Its Rank

And File To Remain In Single Blessedness And Subsist Frugally To Boot.

 

As To His Late Accomplishments In The Field Of Labor,  Mr. Thompson

Looked Out Of His Cabin Door To Where He Could See Dimly Through The

Trees The Uncompleted Bulk Of His Church--And He Set Down A Mental

Cipher Against That Account. It Was Waste Effort. He Felt In His Heart

That He Would Never Finish It. What Was The Use?

 

He Tried To Whip Up The Old Sense Of Duty To His Calling,  To The Church,

To The Great Good Which He Had Been Taught He Should Accomplish. And He

Could Muster Up Nothing But An Irritating Sense Of Hollow Wordiness In

Many Of His Former Dictums And Utterances,  A Vast Futility Of Effort.

 

Whereupon He At Once Found Himself Face To Face With A Fresh Problem,  In

Which The Question Of Squaring His Material Needs And Queer Half-Formed

Desires With His Actions Loomed Paramount. In Other Words Mr. Thompson

Began,  In A Fashion Scarcely Apprehended,  Upon The Painful Process Of

Formulating A Philosophy Of Life That Would Apply To Life As It Was

Forcing Itself Upon His Consciousness--Not As He Had Hitherto Conceived

Life To Be.

 

But He Was Unable To Pin Himself Down To Any Definite Plan. He Could Not

Evolve A Clear Idea Of What To Do,  Nor Even Of What He Wanted To Do. And

In The Interim He Did Little Save Sit About His Cabin,  Deep In

Introspection,  Chop Firewood As Needed And Cook His Plain Fare--That Was

Gradually Growing Plainer,  More Restricted. Sometimes He Varied This By

Long Solitary Tramps Through The Woods Along The Brushy Bank Of Lone

Moose Creek.

 

This Hermit Existence He Kept Up For Over A Fortnight. He Had Fought

With Tommy Ashe And He Felt Diffident About Inflicting His Company On

Tommy,  Considering The _Casus Belli_. Nor Could He Bring Himself To A

Casual Dropping In On Sam Carr. He Shrank From Meeting Sophie,  From

Hearing The Sound Of Her Voice,  From Feeling The Tumult Of Desire Her

Chapter 6 (A Man's Job For A Minister) Pg 58

Nearness Always Stirred Up In Him. And There Was Nowhere Else To Go,  No

One With Whom He Could Talk. He Could Not Hold Converse With The Crees.

The Lachlan Family Relapsed Into Painful Stiffness When He Entered Their

House. There Was No Common Ground Between Him And Them.

 

He Was Really Marking Time Until The Next Mail Should Arrive At Fort

Pachugan. The Days Were Growing Shorter,  The Nights Edged With Sharp

Frosts. There Came A Flurry Of Snow That Lay A Day And Faded Slowly In

The Eye Of The Weakening Sun.

 

Mr. Thompson,  Watching His Daily Diminishing Food Supply With Sedulous

Consideration,  Knew That The Winter Was Drawing Near,  A Season Merciless

In Its Rigor. He Knew That One Of These Days The Northerly Wind Would

Bring Down A Storm Which Would Blanket The Land With Snow That Only The

Sun Of The Next May Would Banish. He Was Ill-Prepared To Face Such An

Iron-Jawed Season.

 

If He Stayed There It Would Just About Take His Quarterly Salary To

Supply Him With Plain Food And The Heavier Clothing He Needed. But--He

Drew A Long Breath And Asked Himself One Day Why He Should Stay There.

Why Should He? He Could Not Forbear A Wry Grimace When He Tried To See

Himself Carrying Out His Appointed Task Faithfully To The End--Preaching

Vainly To Uncomprehending Ears Month After Month,  Year After Year,

Stagnating Mentally And Suffocating Spiritually In Those Silent Forests

Where God And Godly Living Was Not A Factor At All; Where Food,

Clothing,  And Shelter Loomed Bigger Than Anything Else,  Because Until

These Primary Needs Were Satisfied A Man Could Not Rise Above The Status

Of A Hungry Animal.

 

Yet He Shrank From Giving Up The Ministry. He Had Been Bred To It,  His

Destiny Sedulously Shaped Toward That End By The Maiden Aunts And The

Theological Schools. It Was,  In Effect,  His Trade. He Could Scarcely

Look Equably Upon A Future Apart From Prayer Meetings,  From Bible

Classes,  From Carefully Thought Out And Eloquently Delivered Sermons. He

Felt Like A Renegade When He Considered Quitting That Chosen Field. But

He Felt Also That It Was A Field In Which He Had No Business Now.

 

He Was Still In This Uncertain