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The Web of Time
Excerpt from The Web of Time
The footfall came nearer, firm and steady, too - at which the anxious face lighted up; but a moment later it was gone, and silence reigned again. The baby seemed, in some mysterious way, to share the disappointment; in any case, it became suddenly quiet, the big blue eyes gazing up at the mother's. The unfathomed depths, as such depths are prone to do, seemed to start some hidden springs of thought in the woman's mind; for the anxious eyes that peered into them were now suffused with tears, then bright again with maternal fondness as she clasped the infant to her breast.
For she dreaded the home-coming of her husband, even While she longed for it. The greatest of all books assures us that fear is cast out by love - but love may still fear something in the very one it loves above all others; some alien habit, some sin that changes the whole complexion of a soul. And thus was it with the wife who now awaited her husband's coming with a troubled heart.
It had not been ever thus. Far different had it been in the happy days with which her thoughts were busy now as she moved hither and thither, do ing what deft and loving hands could do to make all bright and cheery before her husband should arrive. Those vanished days had been happy ones indeed, with nothing to cloud their joy.
The footfall came nearer, firm and steady, too - at which the anxious face lighted up; but a moment later it was gone, and silence reigned again. The baby seemed, in some mysterious way, to share the disappointment; in any case, it became suddenly quiet, the big blue eyes gazing up at the mother's. The unfathomed depths, as such depths are prone to do, seemed to start some hidden springs of thought in the woman's mind; for the anxious eyes that peered into them were now suffused with tears, then bright again with maternal fondness as she clasped the infant to her breast.
For she dreaded the home-coming of her husband, even While she longed for it. The greatest of all books assures us that fear is cast out by love - but love may still fear something in the very one it loves above all others; some alien habit, some sin that changes the whole complexion of a soul. And thus was it with the wife who now awaited her husband's coming with a troubled heart.
It had not been ever thus. Far different had it been in the happy days with which her thoughts were busy now as she moved hither and thither, do ing what deft and loving hands could do to make all bright and cheery before her husband should arrive. Those vanished days had been happy ones indeed, with nothing to cloud their joy.
253 pages, Paperback
First published September 27, 2015
2 people want to read
About the author
Robert Edward Knowles
19 books1 followerReverend Robert Edward Knowles was ordained in the Presbyterian Church in 1891. As a direct result of the shock that occurred from his involvement in a train wreck in 1911, Rev. Knowles required a number of rest cures but they had little effect and in 1915, unable to carry out his duties, he resigned from the ministry and continued his literary career that started in 1905 with the publication of his first novel, St. Cuthbert’s. He was also a contributor to the Toronto Daily Star,
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
June 10, 2020
'The poor, if they love and are loved again, know more of life's real wealth than the deluded rich.'
A trite sentiment for sure, albeit one you could almost be persuaded to believe after reading this warmhearted coming of age story set amongst the poor yet generous God-fearing folk of largely Scottish descent in a modest American township.
Presbyterians of Scotch descent, kindly God-fearing folk, such as David Borland, genial mill owner and dispenser of home-bred philosophy, and Geordie Nickle the Scotsman, not wealthy men by any means and due to lose what little they have as the story progressed, but good men and secret philanthropists to boot:
"Men like him does more to keep faith livin' than all the colleges an' all the professors in the world; he's a beautiful argument for religion, is Geordie Nickle—he kind o' proves God, just the same as one sunbeam proves the sun,"
Harvey Simmons and his mother are the chief beneficiaries of their modest largesse, though it can't prevent the letters encroaching blindess. The title refers to the trap of hereditary alcoholism. Harvey's drunkard father absconds after causing a family tragedy in the opening chapter, and when he grows to be a man and makes a way for himself as a journalist the son has to stare down the same affliction.
By all regards I should have disliked this sentimental story, and had little sympathy for a mummy's boy whose trio of demons proved to be alcohol, the theatre and the poetry of Walt Whitman, three things I'm fairly partial to myself!
And yet I really enjoyed the book at a time when I was feeling pretty miserable about things, it's mixture of kindly, effusive characters and gentle narrative sermons came across like a successful blend between Charles Dickens and George MacDonald.
A trite sentiment for sure, albeit one you could almost be persuaded to believe after reading this warmhearted coming of age story set amongst the poor yet generous God-fearing folk of largely Scottish descent in a modest American township.
Presbyterians of Scotch descent, kindly God-fearing folk, such as David Borland, genial mill owner and dispenser of home-bred philosophy, and Geordie Nickle the Scotsman, not wealthy men by any means and due to lose what little they have as the story progressed, but good men and secret philanthropists to boot:
"Men like him does more to keep faith livin' than all the colleges an' all the professors in the world; he's a beautiful argument for religion, is Geordie Nickle—he kind o' proves God, just the same as one sunbeam proves the sun,"
Harvey Simmons and his mother are the chief beneficiaries of their modest largesse, though it can't prevent the letters encroaching blindess. The title refers to the trap of hereditary alcoholism. Harvey's drunkard father absconds after causing a family tragedy in the opening chapter, and when he grows to be a man and makes a way for himself as a journalist the son has to stare down the same affliction.
By all regards I should have disliked this sentimental story, and had little sympathy for a mummy's boy whose trio of demons proved to be alcohol, the theatre and the poetry of Walt Whitman, three things I'm fairly partial to myself!
And yet I really enjoyed the book at a time when I was feeling pretty miserable about things, it's mixture of kindly, effusive characters and gentle narrative sermons came across like a successful blend between Charles Dickens and George MacDonald.
Displaying 1 of 1 review