第8章 CHAPTER II A FIGHT FOR FREEDOM(4)

But," he continued, offering his hand, "let me thank you warmly for your sympathy. It was splendidly courageous of you. Do you--do you attend his church?""Yes, we worship with the Episcopal Church. I am a Friend myself.""Ah, then it was a splendidly courageous act. I honour you for it.""But you will continue your mission?" she replied earnestly.

"Alas, I can hardly see how the mission can be continued. There seems to be no opening."Mrs. Gwynne apparently lost interest. "Good-bye," she said simply, shaking hands with them both, and without further words left the room with her boy. For some distance they walked together along the dark road in silence. Then in an awed voice the boy said:

"How could you do it, mother? You were not a bit afraid.""Afraid of what, the Rector?"

"No, not the Rector--but to speak up that way before all the people.""It was hard to speak," said his mother, "very hard, but it was harder to keep silent. It did not seem right."The boy's heart swelled with a new pride in his mother. "Oh, mother," he said, "you were splendid. You were like a soldier standing there. You were like the martyrs in my book.""Oh, no, no, my boy."

"I tell you yes, mother, I was proud of you."The thrilling passion in the little boy's voice went to his mother's heart. "Were you, my boy?" she said, her voice faltering.

"I am glad you were."

Hand in hand they walked along, the boy exulting in his restored pride in his mother and in her courage. But a new feeling soon stirred within him. He remembered with a pain intolerable that he had allowed the word of so despicable a creature as Mop Cheatley to shake his faith in his mother's courage. Indignation at the wretched creature who had maligned her, but chiefly a passionate self-contempt that he had allowed himself to doubt her, raged tumultuously in his heart and drove him in a silent fury through the dark until they reached their own gate. Then as his mother's hand reached toward the latch, the boy abruptly caught her arm in a fierce grip.

"Mother," he burst forth in a passionate declaration of faith, "you're not a coward.""A coward?" replied his mother, astonished.

The boy's arms went around her, his head pressed into her bosom.

In a voice broken with passionate sobs he poured forth his tale of shame and self-contempt.

"He said you were a Quaker, that the Quakers were cowards, and would never fight, and that you were a coward, and that you would never fight. But you would, mother, wouldn't you? And you're not a real Quaker, are you, mother?""A Quaker," said his mother. "Yes, dear, I belong to the Friends, as we call them.""And they, won't they ever fight?" demanded the boy anxiously.

"They do not believe that fighting with fists, or sticks, or like wild beasts," said his mother, "ever wins anything worth while.""Never, mother?" cried the boy, anxiety and fear in his tones.

"You would fight, you would fight to-night, you would fight the Rector.""Yes, my boy," said his mother quietly, "that kind of fighting we believe in. Our people have never been afraid to stand up for the right, and to suffer for it too. Remember that, my boy," a certain pride rang out in the mother's voice. She continued, "We must never be afraid to suffer for what we believe to be right. You must never forget that through all your life, Larry." Her voice grew solemn. "You must never, never go back from what you know to be right, even if you have to suffer for it.""Oh, mother," whispered the boy through his sobs, "I wish I were brave like you.""No, no, not like me," whispered his mother, putting her face down to his. "You will be much braver than your mother, my boy, oh, very much braver than your mother."The boy still clung to her as if he feared to let her go. "Oh, mother," he whispered, "do you think I can be brave?""Yes, my boy," her voice rang out again confident and clear. "It always makes us brave to know that He bore the cross for us and died rather than betray us."There were no more words between them, but the memory of that night never faded from the boy's mind. A new standard of heroism was set up within his soul which he might fail to reach but which he could never lower.