Andrew Lashcairn had done it that night with the
little pale cousin; he had made himself "at one with God": fighting and
struggling had ceased; his life, a battle-ground of warring forces, had
become, in a mighty flash of understanding, the chamber of a peace
treaty, and God--a big man--God outside himself--had taken hold of him
and kept him. To Louis that could never happen; he was too unloving, too
self-centred, too unimaginative ever to see lights from heaven. Indeed,
she thought hopefully, Louis might, in the end, go further than Andrew.
He might stand up in the strength of a man without the propping of a God
at all.
"I've weakened him. All along I've weakened him. I've fussed over him
like a hen after her duckling when it takes to the water. I wouldn't let
him swim for fear he'd get drowned. And so--he just flops about and
looks disgusting. I've made him run away from temptation. That was
because I couldn't keep on being disappointed in him. Because I couldn't
face the disgust of him coming home dirty and smelly and saying filthy
things to me--and sleeping close to him. Andrew," she called to the
baby, who looked at her solemnly and went on playing with the little
pebbles at his feet. "Listen, darling, what mother's telling you. 'He
that fights and runs away lives to fight another day.' I made him run
away from whisky, and all the time it's throwing down challenges to him,
putting out its tongue at him, pulling rude faces at him.
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