' To no living
soul could I tell my grief, not even to my mother, for she had her
own to bear: no human being could help me, yet I must have help or
give up shamefully. Then I did what others do when all else fails to
sustain them; I turned to God: not humbly, not devoutly or
trustfully, but doubtfully, bitterly, and rebelliously; for I said
in my despairing heart, 'If there is a God, let Him help me, and I
will believe.' He did help me, and I kept my word."
"Oh, David, how?" whispered Christie after a moment's silence, for
the last words were solemn in their earnestness.
"The help did not come at once. No miracle answered me, and I
thought my cry had not been heard. But it had, and slowly something
like submission came to me. It was not cheerful nor pious: it was
only a dumb, sad sort of patience without hope or faith. It was
better than desperation; so I accepted it, and bore the inevitable
as well as I could. Presently, courage seemed to spring up again: I
was ashamed to be beaten in the first battle, and some sort of blind
instinct made me long to break away from the past and begin again.
My father was dead; mother left all to me, and followed where I led.
I sold the old place, bought this, and, shutting out the world as
much as I could, I fell to work as if my life depended on it.
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