The furrows knotted between his eyebrows and at the corners of
his eyes. His sou'wester still covered his head. At his mouth was a
down-drawing, as of disgust before some offensive sight or smell, and the
hand which had held the fish was clinched. He swallowed and found speech
hard. Then Joan spoke again.
"Uncle's forgived me, an' Mary, an' Tom, an' mother here. Caan't 'e, caan't
'e, faither? My road's that hard."
Then he answered, his words bursting out of his lips sharply, painfully at
first, rolling as usual in his mighty chest voice afterward. The man
twisted Scripture to his narrow purposes according to Luke Gospel usage.
"'Forgive'? Who can forgive but the Lard, an' what is man that he should
forgive them as the A'mighty's damned? 'Tis the sinners' bleat an' whine
for forgiveness what's crackin' the ear o' God whensoever 'tis bent 'pon
airth. Ain't your religion taught you that--you, Thomas Chirgwin? If not,
'tis a brawken reed, man. Get you gone, you fagot, you an' this here
white-haired sawl, as is foolin' you an' holdin' converse wi' the outcast
o' heaven. I ban't no faither o' yourn, thank God, as shawed me I
weern't--never, never. Gaw! Gaw both of 'e. My God! the sight of 'e do
sicken me as I stand in the same air. You--an auld man--touchin' her an'
her devil-sent, filthy moneys. 'Twas a evil day, Thomas Chirgwin, when I
fust seed them o' your blood--an ill hour, an' you drives it red-hot into
my brain with your actions.
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