sin at all!
He spoke the word as if it were a talisman, a sword that he had mislaid and was glad to find again.
“Betty, it is sin—” he said.
She laughed.
“What is sin?” she said pertly, imitating his voice as he pronounced the word.
An old answer came from out of his past, learned back in the years of long, dear, drowsy Sabbaths, with a smell of spiced cookies and gingerbread in the air, and his mother’s sweet face as she sat in the rocking chair by her window on the old farm and read her Bible while he learned his catechism:
“Sin is any want of conformity unto or transgression of the law of God,” he said.
Betty stared and laughed again.
“Where did you get that, Chet? Sounds like some highbrow lawyer. Whatever it is, it’s moth eaten. What right would God have to make laws for us? If He put us here on the earth and made us live whether we wanted to or not, it’s up to us to have as good a time as we can, isn’t it? If there is a God,” she added mockingly.
He was silent with the shock of it, the humiliation.
He had never taken time to live by them himself, but he had all the doctrines thoroughly defined, laid carefully away in a neat napkin in his mind ready for any time of need. He was an elder in the church! A warm advocate of all things orthodox and biblical! And his child was talking like this! This was rank atheism!
He was silent as he drove up to the door, on his face such a look of haggard despair that Betty turned, in a kind of hard pity, as she got out of the car:
“Listen, Chester,” she said with a bit of fine condescension in her voice. “You needn’t worry about me, really! Dud isn’t as bad as he seems to you, and anyway, I know how to take care of myself. All girls do nowadays!”
With that she was off into the house, and the door closed lightly behind her.
He sat in the car for a minute more staring at the house, staring through the dark at the door where she had passed, hearing over again the awful things she had said to him—actually said to her father!
He moaned and leaned his weary head down against the wheel for a moment. Then laboriously he started his car again and drove slowly into the garage.
His wife was waiting for him when he came in. She had hot coffee and a nice little tray with delicate chicken sandwiches and a cup of custard in a china cup. She had stirred the fire when she heard him come, and his chair was waiting, drawn up before it with the tray on a little table at the side and only a dim shaded light at the far end of the room. She knew how to do all those exquisite little comforting things so perfectly. Just her presence was a rest.
But tonight, he waved her aside. How could he tell her? Betty’s mother, pure as the snow! How could he tell her that Betty’s lovely lips had uttered words of perdition, and that the very breath on which they were brought to his ear was rank with stale tobacco smoke, and a tang of something stronger! Betty’s little rosebud lips! Betty’s baby lips that had been so pure and sweet and wonderful!
He sank into the chair by the fire with a groan and covered his face with his hands. He shook his head when she tried to press the coffee upon him, and groaned again. How could he tell Eleanor? And yet he must. This was something they must bear together, work out together. Could he make Eleanor understand the horror of it all? And if she did understand, would it perhaps kill her?
Into the midst of the turmoil of his mind and the distress of his wife, there came the sound of a key turning cautiously in the lock, a key that was unsteadily fitted into place and turned reluctantly. At last the door opened, and Chris lurched into the hall. In his clumsy attempt to be quiet about it he knocked over a vase of flowers that stood on the hall console and then tried to mop it up with his hat, muttering that it was all right. No place for weeds anyway!
Something thick and unnatural in his voice caused both father and mother to
He spoke the word as if it were a talisman, a sword that he had mislaid and was glad to find again.
“Betty, it is sin—” he said.
She laughed.
“What is sin?” she said pertly, imitating his voice as he pronounced the word.
An old answer came from out of his past, learned back in the years of long, dear, drowsy Sabbaths, with a smell of spiced cookies and gingerbread in the air, and his mother’s sweet face as she sat in the rocking chair by her window on the old farm and read her Bible while he learned his catechism:
“Sin is any want of conformity unto or transgression of the law of God,” he said.
Betty stared and laughed again.
“Where did you get that, Chet? Sounds like some highbrow lawyer. Whatever it is, it’s moth eaten. What right would God have to make laws for us? If He put us here on the earth and made us live whether we wanted to or not, it’s up to us to have as good a time as we can, isn’t it? If there is a God,” she added mockingly.
He was silent with the shock of it, the humiliation.
He had never taken time to live by them himself, but he had all the doctrines thoroughly defined, laid carefully away in a neat napkin in his mind ready for any time of need. He was an elder in the church! A warm advocate of all things orthodox and biblical! And his child was talking like this! This was rank atheism!
He was silent as he drove up to the door, on his face such a look of haggard despair that Betty turned, in a kind of hard pity, as she got out of the car:
“Listen, Chester,” she said with a bit of fine condescension in her voice. “You needn’t worry about me, really! Dud isn’t as bad as he seems to you, and anyway, I know how to take care of myself. All girls do nowadays!”
With that she was off into the house, and the door closed lightly behind her.
He sat in the car for a minute more staring at the house, staring through the dark at the door where she had passed, hearing over again the awful things she had said to him—actually said to her father!
He moaned and leaned his weary head down against the wheel for a moment. Then laboriously he started his car again and drove slowly into the garage.
His wife was waiting for him when he came in. She had hot coffee and a nice little tray with delicate chicken sandwiches and a cup of custard in a china cup. She had stirred the fire when she heard him come, and his chair was waiting, drawn up before it with the tray on a little table at the side and only a dim shaded light at the far end of the room. She knew how to do all those exquisite little comforting things so perfectly. Just her presence was a rest.
But tonight, he waved her aside. How could he tell her? Betty’s mother, pure as the snow! How could he tell her that Betty’s lovely lips had uttered words of perdition, and that the very breath on which they were brought to his ear was rank with stale tobacco smoke, and a tang of something stronger! Betty’s little rosebud lips! Betty’s baby lips that had been so pure and sweet and wonderful!
He sank into the chair by the fire with a groan and covered his face with his hands. He shook his head when she tried to press the coffee upon him, and groaned again. How could he tell Eleanor? And yet he must. This was something they must bear together, work out together. Could he make Eleanor understand the horror of it all? And if she did understand, would it perhaps kill her?
Into the midst of the turmoil of his mind and the distress of his wife, there came the sound of a key turning cautiously in the lock, a key that was unsteadily fitted into place and turned reluctantly. At last the door opened, and Chris lurched into the hall. In his clumsy attempt to be quiet about it he knocked over a vase of flowers that stood on the hall console and then tried to mop it up with his hat, muttering that it was all right. No place for weeds anyway!
Something thick and unnatural in his voice caused both father and mother to
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