FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES

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FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES

Lloyd C. Douglas

Published by

NAMASKAR BOOKS Building No. 2/42 (Second Floor) Ansari Road, Daryaganj New Delhi-110002 e-mail:[email protected] Website: http://namaskarbooks.com ISBN: 978-93-92040-37-5 FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES By Lloyd C. Douglas Edition 2021

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Forgive Us Our Trespasses

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CONTENTS Chapter—I

7

Chapter—II

38

Chapter—III

69

Chapter—IV

92

Chapter—V

114

Chapter—VI

131

Chapter—VII

152

Chapter—VIII

182

Chapter—IX

208

Chapter—X

239

Chapter—XI

268

Chapter—XII

291

Chapter—XIII

314

Chapter—XIV

335

Chapter—XV

361

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Forgive Us Our Trespasses

Chapter—XVI

391

Chapter—XVII

416

Chapter—XVIII

448

Forgive Us Our Trespasses

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7

CHAPTER—I

he new-laid harvest straw beneath the faded red carpet rustled crisply under Martha’s shapeless felt slippers as she padded across the living-room to the cluttered mantel. With the quizzical grimace of long-neglected astigmatism she adjusted the steel-bowed spectacles that had been her mother’s, had of a notion peddler for two dozen eggs and a pound of butter. The wooden-wheeled clock—a noisy but amazingly accurate and exquisitely ornamented product of old Ferd’s, while laid up one winter with a broken leg that had kept him two months sober—clacked irascibly at Martha that another blistering August morning was nearly five hours old. High time, indeed, that the day’s work began. Not much wonder the Millers were poor. Dragging her slipper-heels to the door of the spare bedroom which, in spite of her continued protests, Susan and Greta had insisted on occupying of late, Martha vigorously rattled the latch.

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Glumly appeased by assurances from within, she returned to the dingy kitchen and peered into the kettle to see if there was enough water to prime the parching pump under the pear tree. Then, kettle in hand, she plodded to the foot of the narrow stairs, and petulantly called: “Julia!”      Outstretched on velvet moss so soft and deep it yielded to every curve of her supple young body, Julia knew that if she stirred, the least bit, she would never be able to recapture the complete satisfaction of this luxurious languor. Doubtless it was too much to expect that an experience so strangely sweet could be quite real. Sooner or later, something or somebody would invade her peace. A tall giraffe would saunter up and thrust his long nose into the top of the banana tree. Giraffes ate bananas, didn’t they?... Or a big man with a blue coat and shiny buttons would order her off.... Or there would be a peremptory summons from afar to come at once! Julia’s unbuckled consciousness was already troubled by the persistent echo of a distant call. It had seemed to come from the depths of this tropical forest— a faint but urgent cry for help. The voice had sounded tired, plaintive, persecuted—just like Martha’s. But what would Martha be doing away out here in... in Tasmania? Julia now readily identified her location by recalling a picture in The Pictorial Atlas, her omnivorous memory obliging her with phrases from the adjacent descriptive text: “Mountains heavily forested... magnificent scenery... peaks of crystalline

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rock showing pink and blue... frequent showers... luxuriant vegetation.” If this wasn’t Tasmania, it was someplace else too far off for Martha to find. Martha never went anywhere, not even to Ligonier on Saturdays. She always saw them off, standing there under the big maple, mopping her tanned forehead with the corner of her brown apron. “Wish you was a-goin’ along, Mat,” Hiram would drawl, conscious that he only, by virtue of his clumsy championship of her dour eccentricities, could nickname her without rebuke. “No,” Martha would reply, sacrificially, “somebody’s got to stay on th’ place—what with them young turkeys and all.” Whoever was calling, Julia had an uneasy sense of guilt over her failure to respond. Whether required to go or not, she at least should have the courtesy to answer. Of course, if it did actually turn out to be Martha—a most improbable event—she would have to obey. One always came when Martha called. Sometimes one came scowling and grumbling, but one always came. Martha had an uncanny instinct for knowing when one must on no account be disturbed. Had one reached the most exciting episode in a story, Martha needed a few dry chips immediately to revive an expiring fire. Let the sunset be at that phase where vermilion was beginning to be laced with purple, Martha’s accusing voice inquired from the kitchen door whether one expected to gather the eggs, or must she go out later and do it herself in the dark and all?... But this couldn’t be Martha!

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Forgive Us Our Trespasses

In just a moment, now, Julia would reply to the entreaty. She would draw a deep breath—though deep breaths were rather disconcerting, lately, for they seemed to make her plump round breasts so much more mature than she was, herself—and try to exhale “Coming!” so effortlessly as not to disturb this delightful lethargy. She would wait until the cry sounded a little more distinctly, and then she would answer, “Yes, Martha... Coming!” Evidently someone else had gone to the rescue, for everything was blissfully quiet again. That was good. So nice not to be bothered. Julia sighed contentedly as a big drop of warm dew dripped from the tip of a sheltering fern-frond and rolled slowly down her cheek. She opened one eye cautiously—a mere tiny slit—to make sure the tall, slim, slanting date-palm was still there. It was; plainly visible through the vertical bars of her long black lashes. Was this the one in the Elementary Geography or the Child’s Natural History? No—it couldn’t be; for the date-palm in the Geography had a grey monkey in the top, and the one in the Natural History was being climbed by a brown boy with arms as long as his legs, and sharp heels, scampering up out of the tiresome paragraph that read: “The Malay is of pigmy stature, averaging 148-149 cm., with black skin and short woolly hair.”... No—this date-palm must be the one in the magic-lantern lecture, last winter, over at Hinebaugh’s Schoolhouse. As for the dripping rubber trees, with the waxy leaves that shaded her like hands folded above her eyes, Julia could locate them certainly. They were from

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the little conservatory at Fort Wayne... out in Spring Fountain Park... the day she didn’t go to the show. And here they were in this immense conservatory—for this really was a conservatory. Julia smiled over her silly mistake. She had fancied herself out in the open... in Tasmania, maybe; and all the time she had been lying here on the moss in this conservatory, exactly like the one in Spring Fountain Park—only twenty times bigger! But there was no mistaking those moist rubber trees. She had sat under them for a whole hour on a sticky green iron bench, that day last summer, when their family—all but Martha, what with the plums and all—had gone to Barnum and Bailey’s circus; only she hadn’t seen the show. She had indignantly left them standing there giggling foolishly on the crowded courthouse steps, craning their necks to follow the last of the little elephants at the tail of the pompous parade—the little elephants whose bulbous, bobbing, nodding heads seemed to be saying, “Yes, yes—we’re coming.”... (Yes, Martha... Coming!) Hiram and Elmer had been so noisy and silly, and had attracted so much unpleasant comment, that she had suddenly rebelled against the further humiliation of going out to the show-grounds with them. “Aw—come on!” Elmer had shouted, against the deafening shrieks of the steam calliope. “Don’t be a sissy!” “S’matter with yuh?” growled Hiram. “‘shamed o’ yer folks?” Greta was laughing uproariously over Susan’s comment, “Wouldn’t it kill yuh, Gret?... Father a-scoldin’

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the boys fer drinkin’ so much, and him just able to stand up.” Julia had been very sorry for her father that day, swaying unsteadily in the broiling sun as he morosely watched the clanking, jingling, garish, pungent parade—his tanned face screwed up into tight little wrinkles, his shaggy grey hair curled in tight little ringlets on his temples, his blue eyes, deep-set, swimming with vertigo. She couldn’t bear to see him ridiculed. He belonged to her. “Please, Greta!” Greta had grinned, and cracked her chewing-gum. Julia had been strongly impulsed to slip her arm through her father’s, and make off with him; to offer him a hand exactly like his, only smaller and not so brown; to smile into his eyes with eyes exactly like them, only younger and not so weary; to take him along with her—anywhere to be away from these unfeeling people who were not related to either of them except by the mere unfortunate accident that they all happened to belong to the same family. At that very moment, however, he had turned on her reproachfully, stifled a hiccough that hinted at impending nausea, and muttered, “You’d better let yourself go and have some fun once.” “Fun?” “Yes: their kind o’ fun. It won’t do you no good to be haughty. You might as well cave in—an’ like it! I done it! So kin you! I even larnt to talk like ‘em. If you don’t want to be lonesome all yer life, you’d better—” That quite settled it!... Promising to meet them at the Pennsylvania Station at seven-fifteen (they had left

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old Florrie and the dilapidated surrey at Larwill and had come the rest of the way by rail), Julia had slipped through the sweaty crowd, her cheeks aflame. Three blocks away she took the street-car—No. 52, a policeman had told her—an almost empty little green street-car that banged its bell furiously at the now demobilizing throng, demanding it to drag its roly-poly, waddling wife and gawky children and their yellow balloons and pink popcorn balls off the rails; had ground dizzily around sharp corners, and lost its few passengers—all but Julia—finally reaching almost open country, where it took the bit between its teeth, tucked its chin against its neck, and galloped over a rusty, hummocky track, the trolley-wheel singing a painfully shrill note, until it brought up with a jerk at the shabby station-shed in Spring Fountain Park. The grass was seared and badly trampled, and the dahlias were dusty and frowsy in their prim round beds. A black-lettered board pointed an index-finger toward “The Conservatory.” Julia had had the steamy, sweaty, stuffy, little greenhouse all to herself, that afternoon. Everybody else had gone to the circus. She had sat there on the sticky iron bench, hoping it wouldn’t come off on her new pink gingham, dreamily transporting herself to the equatorial regions where all this rank, lush, stifled vegetation belonged, finding a strange kinship with it. She sympathized with these cramped, dwarfed, imprisoned rubber trees, and the gigantic ferns with dejected, drooping arms and wings. And now, to Julia’s annoyance, the cry for help was repeated. It came from just outside the conservatory

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Forgive Us Our Trespasses

door, this time. Would she, or would she not, come immediately? The huge dome of the conservatory lifted and disappeared. It was exactly like the glass cover that protected the plate of soggy doughnuts from the flies on the high counter in Ruggles’s Restaurant and Pool Hall at Cromwell.... Martha had taken the conservatory by the handle, and lifted it off. One could hear what she was saying now, ever so distinctly. Would she come, this instant, and help get breakfast for Susan and Greta, who, as she very well knew, had promised to be ready at half-past five to go with the other huckleberry-pickers to Wadham’s marsh? And wasn’t it little enough for her to do, seeing she had begged off from the berryin’ to study her algebry, or whatever it was, so she would be prepared for that there County Institute, week after next, which everybody knew she hadn’t any right to waste their money on—even if it was her’n, a-teachin’ silly paintin’ lessons to women as ought to been akeepin’ their children’s buttons on—what with them so hard-up and all? And didn’t she have any natural feelin’s of—” “Yes, Martha. I’m coming!” Julia sat up, drenched with perspiration, stretched, inhaled an unsatisfactory draught of sultry, humid air, and gazed out through the east window at a chrome yellow sun that already threatened to break an August record. Next Thursday’s Ligonier Weekly Banner would probably say, in big black headlines, “HOTTEST DAY FOR TEN YEARS!... Highest Temperature Since 1885 Recorded on August the—”

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August the whath?... August the tenth? Her birthday! Would anyone else remember? She reached out a long, slender hand for her stockings, dangling over the back of a chair, and tugged them on. After all, shouldn’t she be glad she had a good excuse not to go into Wadham’s snake-infested huckleberry marsh and have her arms and legs scratched with briars and nettles while she fought deerflies with an exasperation close to tears, and shuddered with loathing at the sight of enormous caterpillars, and wiped the slimy cobwebs out of her eyes with sunblistered, juice-smeared wrists?... Blessings on the pesky algebra! “J-u-l-i-a!” “Yes, Martha. I’m coming!”      Her entrance into the grim little dining-room was effected with much difficulty. She could have wished that her first appearance before her household, as an adult in good and regular standing, might have been somewhat more impressive. Circumstances had decreed that Julia must bump her way crabwise through the obstinate swinging-door from the smoky kitchen with a precariously poised platter of bacon in one hand and the big battered coffeepot in the other, while the family, glancing up from its first round of fried mush and sorghum molasses—with which munitions Martha had preceded her—wondered, not without warrantable anxiety, whether she would make port with all her cargo. It was not to be expected that her lazy and surly brothers, much less absent-minded old Ferd—whose