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 Unthinkable
Unstoppable | Book Two
DANIELLE HILL
 Contents

Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
About The Author
Also by Danielle Hill
STAY IN TOUCH
Acknowledgements
 Copyright © 2021 Danielle Hill
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, resold or distributed in any form, or by any electronic or
mechanical means, without permission in writing from the author, except for brief quotations within a review.

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
 For my sisters
~ Victoria, Samantha & Natalie ~
The three badass women who’ve always had my back.
Love you all.
 ONE
LISS
Thirteen Years Old
“You swore you wouldn’t do it again, Mitch.”
My mom’s broken words bled into the hallway where I sat
perched on the fourth step from the top, my head resting against
the wooden bannister. Her pained sobs intensified while my dad
remained noticeably silent, no doubt conjuring up another lame
excuse, preparing another fake apology. My grip tightened around
the railing, the hard edges of the wood biting into my palms.
Tears of frustration built behind my lids, spilling over onto my
cheeks. I twisted my neck and pressed my forehead into the wood,
hard enough that a flash of pain erupted from the spot and radiated
across my face. Then I focused my attention on that. Because
physical pain was easier to deal with. Easier to understand.
How could he keep hurting her the way he did? Didn’t he see it?
Didn’t he hear the symphony of her heart breaking? Every time I’d
sat on these steps, I’d asked myself the same question. How could
he witness the pain his actions inflicted, then do it all over again?
Time and time again.
He’d always gush about how much he loved her, how sorry he
was, how it would never happen again.
It was all lies.
I doubted he even had a heart. And if he did, it beat for no one
but himself.
He loved being the big shot lawyer in a mid-size firm, where a
rotation of secretaries kept his desk warm and his ego fat, uncaring
that he had a wife and kids. With his styled blonde hair, bright blue
eyes, and alluring charm, no one could resist. And neither could he.
I hated him for it. I hated that he betrayed my mom’s trust and
took her love for granted. I hated that he was so self-involved, so
distant and unfeeling.
 I hated that my mom wasn’t enough, that we weren’t enough.
That… I wasn’t enough.
If he’d ever hugged me, I couldn’t remember it. I couldn’t
remember the last time he hadn’t looked right through me as if I
weren’t even there. His family were a burden to him, at best.
“Melinda,” he finally said with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”
The blood in my veins heated as a vision of how the next ten
minutes would go played out in my head. He’d apologize, blame the
stress of work, the long hours, maybe the lack of attention from my
mom, or even the women he cheated with, and their relentless
advances.
I’d heard it all, every excuse in the book.
He’d say whatever my mom needed to hear to brush it under
the carpet. He knew she would. She always did, even knowing he’d
do it again.
It was sickening. I straightened my spine and brushed my
hands over my damp cheeks, then laid them flat on my bent legs.
I loved my mother, but I could never be like her.
“This one’s… different, Mel.”
My shoulders tensed, fingernails digging into my thighs.
“What?” My mom’s thin voice trembled. “What does that mean,
Mitch?”
I waited, my ears straining for the words, my heart slowing in
my chest.
“I’m saying I want a divorce, Melinda.”
Air rushed up through my nostrils, making me dizzy.
“A divorce?” my mom shrieked. “What? I don’t understand.”
“I’m in love with her, Melinda. And…” My father paused, clearing
his throat. He sounded uncomfortable. “She’s pregnant.”
Never, in all the times I’d eavesdropped on one of these
confrontations, had I heard my mom fall apart so spectacularly.
“No!” The wail tore from her. “No, Mitch. Please, no. Please
don’t do this.” Her agonized cries cut through me like nails on a
chalkboard. She begged him to stay, promised to be better for him,
swore to forgive him.
 I fastened my palms over my ears. I couldn’t listen to it
anymore.
My heart beat out a dull thud against my breastbone as I drew
in a breath and rose to my feet, a steely calm borne of quiet despair
washing over me. I climbed the steps and moved down the hallway
into my parent’s room, reaching up on my toes and closing my
fingers around the handle of the suitcase in the storage closet.
It landed on the pillow top mattress with a light plop, and then I
moved—emotionless—and systematically emptied the room of
Mitchell Bedford. I stuffed everything I could find into the
overflowing case, then dragged it to the floor and perched a knee on
top of it to tug the zipper shut. Then I dragged it down the hall.
It bounced on each step, making a loud thumping sound, but I
doubted they’d hear it. My mom’s pleading cries drowned out
everything else.
When I reached the door, I heaved the suitcase inside and gave
it a shove.
The scene that confronted me would be forever etched into my
brain. My mom on her knees, sobbing into my father’s brown loafers.
My dad’s head hanging back off his shoulders, his manicured fingers
pinching the bridge of his nose like he just wanted it to be over.
Two sets of eyes swung to me when the case collided with the
hardwood floor. My mom’s cries abated, her pale blue eyes widening.
I shifted my attention to the man formerly known as my father. A
light crease emerged on his forehead as he looked first at the
bulging suitcase, then at me. I met his gaze.
Do you see me now, Dad? Good.
I held his stare without flinching and said, “Get out. And don’t
ever come back.”
Without sparing him another second of my time, I turned on my
heel, walked through the door, and slammed it closed behind me.
My mom would be better off without him, I knew that, but my
entire body felt cold, suddenly encased in a thin layer of ice that had
me shivering.
If that was love, count me out.
I wanted no part of it.
 TWO
LISS
Seventeen Years Old
A well-aimed spit bomb sailed past my head and splattered
against the cherry-stained surface of the desk at the front of the
room. The head of the man occupying it snapped up, dislodging the
tortoiseshell glasses perched on the end of his nose.
“Who did that?” Mr. Pickman asked, lurching to his feet, and
adjusting his spectacles.
My head fell back with a muted groan. Great. Just fucking great.
Now he’d hold us hostage through lunch.
“Stand up right now.”
The piercing, nasal quality to Pickman’s voice grated over every
nerve ending in my ears, and I winced before bringing my head back
down and swiping my thumb across the screen on my cell. After
quickly tapping out a message to my best friend, Riley Mason, I slid
the phone into my pocket and eased back in my seat.
Drumming my fingernails distractedly against the scratched
desktop, I watched the hue of Pickman’s sour face transform from a
corpse-like grey to a bright, splotchy crimson. With his pointed ears
and his sharp features twisted in agitation, he looked like a deranged
little elf about to go on a rampage.
“Ah, we’re all suddenly mute? Well, isn’t that convenient?”
Pickman said, folding his tweed jacket-clad arms over his narrow
chest and glowering through what had to be three-inch-thick lenses.
When the lunch bell blared from the crackly speaker system above
his head, a few students started shuffling, readying to leave.
Something like glee sparked in his eyes, and mine narrowed. He got
off on this shit. Tiny man was on a power trip lording over a bunch
of teenagers.
Hello, Napoleon Complex.
“Stay seated.” The tone of his voice was nothing short of
gloating. “You can all remain here until the culprit identifies
themselves, or someone else feels compelled to do it for them.
Thank the individual who felt it prudent to disrupt my lesson with
their juvenile behaviour. I won’t tolerate this level of disrespect in my
classroom…” His voice rose swiftly up the decibel scale as he
continued ranting, and I zoned out.
My gaze wandered idly over the array of disgruntled faces
scattered around the room, eventually landing on the jackass
responsible for this extended stay in purgatory. I glared at the side
of Jackson Bateman’s head until it swung my way.
“Are you kidding me with this shit?” I muttered, my voice laced
with disdain. “Spit bombs? Are you eight?”
When his lips formed a goofy grin, I had to resist the urge to
jump up and throat punch him.
“It was me,” a deep voice rumbled from the desk behind me.
My eyes rolled backward in my head, a familiar chagrin working
its way up my windpipe.
Leon Bradshaw.
Idiot extraordinaire, who gave the term moron a whole new
meaning. Case in point: claiming responsibility for something I knew
for a fact he didn’t do. No doubt he had his reasons; no doubt they
were dumb AF. Twisting my upper body round, I turned to face him.
Leon sat with his arm draped over the back of his chair, the
fabric of his black tee stretched taut over his wide chest. His
smoldering blue gaze—the same one that magically relieved
cheerleaders of their underwear in the guy’s locker room most
lunchtimes—met mine with a playful wink.
“Don’t fucking wink at me, Bradshaw.”
A short chuckle passed through his lips before he tipped his chin
up and blew me a kiss. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it, Snow
Queen.”
I raised a hand and showed him my middle finger before
spinning back to the front of the room. We had a love-hate
relationship, Leon and I, in that I loved to hate him. We’d been at
each other’s throats so long I couldn’t remember what kicked it all
off. Not that it mattered. He’d done zilch to change my opinion over
the course of the past seventeen years.
 The guy was a basic high school stereotype. A hot jock riding
the cresting waves of popularity off the back of his ability to throw a
ball and the fact he looked like the love child of Chris Hemsworth
and Brad Pitt. With his chiselled jawline, streaked dark-blonde hair,
and panty-melting smile, he wasn’t hurting for admirers, and he
knew it.
Lucky for me, I wore Teflon infused underwear and valued
brains over brawn or good looks. I wasn’t in the market for a
boyfriend, and even if I were, the guy would need to have at least a
hint of substance. Which meant, he sure as shit wasn’t a senior at
Claremont High.
“What the fuck, Bradshaw?” My eyes swayed back reluctantly to
dumb and dumber when Jackson’s hushed whisper travelled
between the two tables.
“You owe me for this, Bateman.”
“Fuck that shit,” Jackson muttered in response. “I didn’t ask you
to do it. Last time I owed you, my ass nearly landed in jail.”
Leon snorted. “Don’t be so fucking dramatic. You got pulled
over with a bag of weed on you. How long you gonna bitch about
that?”
“It was fucking yours.” Jackson’s gaze darted to the front of the
room briefly, before swinging back to Leon. He tapped his knuckles
against the desk and shrugged. “I’ll go tell Prickman it was me.”
Prickman being Mr Pickman, otherwise referred to as Prickman the
Douche. For obvious reasons.
“No, you fucking don’t,” Leon shot back. “Too late for that now.
Besides, you’re on a last warning and you know it. I got this one,
dickhead. I’ll let you know what I want in exchange. Already got
something in mind.”
“Yeah, I’ll fucking bet you do. Skunk?”
Leon leaned sideways. “I want the good shit.”
And there it was—Pretty Boy wanted some free weed. The boy
had goals.
Jackson rolled his eyes, mumbling under his breath as he turned
away.
 “Mr. Bradshaw, remain seated. The rest of you, collect your
belongings and leave my classroom.”
Groans of relief mixed with the sounds of scraping chairs and
squeaking footsteps as students stampeded to the door in a mass
exodus. Not particularly feeling like getting my ass trampled this
morning, I held back.
Jackson was still muttering as he passed by my desk, and I
shook my head, wondering how the hell he’d avoided being held
back a grade, or five.
Bending down, I tugged the sides of my bag open and tossed
my belongings inside with little thought to organization.
“Snow Queen?”
My chair jerked under me as Leon’s foot connected with the
back leg.
Pulling the bag onto my lap without looking at him, I yanked the
zipper closed and muttered, “What?”
“I’m still waiting.”
I kept my expression neutral as I angled my head back. “For?”
His forearms slid over the table as he shifted forward in his seat.
“An apology for Friday night. Or a fucking thank you. I’ll take either.”
I scoffed.
“Hey, I came running when you called and instead of thanking
me for it, you chewed me out and insulted my masculinity.”
“Your masculinity?” I repeated with a disparaging smirk.
“Close that fucking trap before you start!” he shot out before I
could plunge his manliness into further disrepute. My teeth caught
the inside of my lip.
Riley drank too much and took off with some players from a
rival football team that weekend. When I’d figured out where she
was, I’d called Leon and asked for his help to get her home. It was a
last resort. I’d instantly regretted it, and likely would for a while.
Leon was acting like he’d taken out ten burly footballers single
handedly.
While I could admit to myself that the guy knew how to handle
himself and he’d actually put on quite an impressive display on the
old battlefield, I wasn’t about to tell him that. Fuck no.
 “Still waiting,” Leon murmured, strumming a beat across the
desk with the blunt edges of his fingers.
“Better get comfortable, Pretty Boy. You’ll be waiting a very long
time.”
He exhaled and dropped back in his chair. “Would it kill you to
show some gratitude, Alissa?”
I shrugged. “I’d rather not find out.”
His mouth formed a reluctant grin as he pushed back, the front
legs of his chair leaving the ground. “You’re an ungrateful brat, you
know that?”
“And you’re a cocky asshole. Guess we all have our flaws.” I hit
him with a pointed look. “Do you remember sticking your size ten in
that giant trap you call a mouth and making Riley feel like an even
bigger jerk than she already did? Want me to thank you for that as
well, jackass?”
The chair legs hit the ground with a clatter and Leon scratched
at his whiskered jaw, his expression contrite. “Yeah, I feel like shit
about that. I didn’t think.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do you ever?”
“Sheath your claws, Snow Queen. You already strung me up by
the ball sack for it once. Can’t a guy make a mistake?”
A snorted breath left my lips. “In your case, yeah… seventeen
years’ worth.” When he opened his mouth to respond, I added,
“None quite as big as the one your mom made nine months before
you were born, though.”
Leon’s eyes narrowed. “You’re fucking cold.”
“I’d say the nickname you bestowed on me gives it away.”
Tipping his head to the side, he studied me, his sea-blue eyes
unusually serious. “Do you hate all men? Or is it just me?”
The unexpected question drew a sudden breath from my chest,
and I averted my gaze.
No, I didn’t hate all men. Just most of them.
Because most of them made decisions with the head between
their legs instead of the one on their shoulders and wouldn’t
recognize fidelity if it slapped them around the face with a wet
vagina.
 Leon Bradshaw fell into that category.
For years, he’d claimed to be in love (whatever the hell that
word meant; from what I could gather, it was open to interpretation)
with Riley, yet it had never stopped his dick from wandering into
other girl’s open mouths. Amongst other holes. The fact he and Ri
were never officially together meant nothing; he’d said the words,
then shat all over them. Lies poured from his gilded tongue like
every other playboy I’d ever met—including the one who’d fathered
me.
“Miss Bedford, why are you still here?”
My disoriented gaze snapped up to find a pot-holed face glaring
down at me. “Just leaving,” I mumbled. Thoughts of my dad always
left a bitter taste in my mouth, dredging up old memories I’d rather
keep buried.
“Do it faster,” Pickman barked, tiny droplets of saliva peppering
the surrounding air. I eased back to avoid the spray. The guy was
renowned for spit-showers; anywhere within a two-foot radius was
too close.
As I walked backward toward the exit, I caught Leon’s gaze and
offered him a middle finger salute. Then I swivelled and strolled
through the open doorway.
That’s about as close to an apology as you’re ever gonna get
from me, Pretty Boy.
I didn’t owe Leon Bradshaw a thing. And I never would.
 THREE
LISS

The screen on my phone lit up, catching my eye as I lay

sprawled out on my bed watching Gossip Girl re-runs on Netflix. I
paused the TV and picked up the phone. My brows lifted with a light
snort when I saw the name flashing across the screen, and I
dropped the cell back down on the comforter.
Not today, Pretty Boy.
Thirty seconds later, it blared to life again. With an irritated
growl, I pulled my body up into a sitting position and crossed my
legs over each other, swiping the screen to answer Leon’s call.
“What do you want?” I clipped, hitting speaker.
“What kind of fucking way is that to answer your phone?”
Leon’s husky baritone filled my bedroom.
“When it’s you, the absolute correct way. Now what do you
want?”
“Not one for small talk, are you?”
“Bradshaw,” I warned.
“Fine, fine. Fuck’s sake.” There was a pause.
“Haven’t got all day,” I chirped.
“I need a favor.”
I snorted. “And you called me?”
“I’ve tried every other fucker in my contacts. My so-called
friends are all either wasted or blanking my calls.”
“They’re smarter than I gave them credit for,” I muttered as I
extended my fingers out in front of my face, grimacing at the
chipped remnants of black polish coating my nails.
“Fuck, I wish someone else had answered,” Leon muttered.
A smirk twisted my lips as I stretched my legs the length of the
bed and leaned back against the cushions. “You and me both, Pretty
Boy, but here we are. You gonna quit being a giant vagina and tell
me why you’re calling?”
 He muttered something I couldn’t quite make out; the word
vagina was in there somewhere. I could almost picture him running
an agitated hand through his artfully messy hair. Eventually, he said,
“I need a ride.”
I pursed my lips. “From me? What makes you think I’m not
busy?”
“Are you?”
“Yeah. Very.”
“Doing what? Watching re-runs of Dawson’s Creek or some shit
on Netflix?”
I scowled down at the phone because that was eerily close and
screw him for making me sound predictable. “None of your business,
Bradshaw. Good luck with finding a ride.”
“Aw, don’t be like that, Snow Queen. I was there when you
needed me the other weekend,” he pointed out, and my fingertip
stilled over the end call button.
Dammit. I knew he’d never let that go. “Last I checked you
have legs, Bradshaw. Why aren’t you using them?”
“My mom’s being a dick, kicked me out. I’m stranded on the
side of the road with all my worldly possessions and I can’t drive
because I’ve been drinking and I’m a responsible fucking human
being.” When I said nothing, he continued, “Come on, Lissa, do me a
solid and we can call it even. Pretty fucking please?”
I scrunched my nose and bit back a groan of frustration as my
conscience nipped at me. Goddammit. At least this would get him off
my back.
“Fine. Where the hell are you, and where do you need to go?”
“I’m home, well outside of it, actually, because my mother’s a
major fucking over-reactor—”
“Be there in ten,” I muttered, cutting him off and rueing my
decision to answer his call.
One on one time with Leon Bradshaw. What fucking fun.
***
Pulling up beside Leon’s pacing figure, I lowered the window a
few inches and peered out.
 “So why exactly are you loitering around outside the house,
instead of in it? Your mom finally realized she should have
swallowed, huh?”
He slitted his eyes and smoothed a hand over the top of his
head before bending to grab the handles of his gym bag.
“Got stoned. Got booted out.” He held the bag up in front of my
face. “She banished me to the trailer to learn some responsibility.”
His voice took on a high-pitched quality on the last two words. I
suspected it was an imitation of his mom’s. She was a smart woman,
Leon’s mom. I couldn’t hold back a light chuckle.
Leon shouldered his bag, then picked up a mid-sized box and
rounded the car with quick strides. I grinned to myself when he
tugged at the passenger side handle, knowing it was locked.
Juvenile, I know. But still funny.
Dipping to look through the glass, he quirked up a brow and
tapped out a quick rhythm with his knuckles. “Don’t be a dick,
Alissa.”
I glanced away and pressed the lock release. He quickly tossed
the bag into the back, followed by the box, then lowered himself into
the seat and twisted to face me.
I took a quick look behind me and narrowed my eyes. “All your
worldly possessions? You could have carried that shit.”
“Slight exaggeration,” he said, a schoolboy grin forming on his
pouty mouth. If I didn’t loathe the sight of him, I might have found
it cute.
Grumbling under my breath about blonde assholes and their
limitless capacity for lies, I pulled the car away from the curb.
“Thanks, Snow Queen.” Leon rubbed his palms over his thighs
and settled back in the seat. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“What? Driving?” I quipped, leaning forward to peer round his
head.
“Nope. Being nice to me.”
I shrugged. “It’s a one-time event, to make us even. Don’t get
used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of—”
“And don’t ruin it by saying stuff,” I muttered.
 He gave a short laugh before reaching behind him to adjust the
hood of his sweat jacket. “Where’s Riley tonight?”
I knocked the blinker on and steered the car around a corner,
pressing my foot down on the gas. “Home, if I had to guess.”
“I called her five times. She’s not answering her phone.”
Eyes scanning the road ahead of me, I clucked my tongue.
“Don’t know what to tell you, Bradshaw. Except maybe, take the
hint.”
He ignored my comment and started looking around the car.
“Got snacks in here, or what?”
“Snacks?” I shook my head. “No. It’s a car, not a fucking
vending machine.”
Chuckling, he turned sideways and perched his ankle over his
knee. I could feel his stare burning a hole into the side of my head.
I flicked my eyes to his and shot him a scowl. “Stop looking at
me, Pretty Boy.”
“Stop looking at you?” he parroted, his eyebrows shooting up.
“Oh, look, home sweet trailer.” I edged the car inside the
entrance to the trailer park and shifted into park. “This was
awesome. Now get out and let’s never do it again.”
“All this hostility,” Leon mused, smoothing his long fingers over
his shadowed jawline. “Some people might think you’re covering up
some deeper feelings for me.”
“And those people might want to schedule a psych evaluation.
Now get your ass out of my car.”
His lips parted in a wide grin, the moonlight glinting off his
shiny, white teeth. “On it, Snow Queen.” He kicked at the door with
his worn converse, swinging it wide before hauling himself out and
moving to the rear door.
After he’d collected the box and dumped it on the ground by his
feet, he came back to the front of the car and hooked his hands over
the roof, leaning inside. “You did a nice fucking thing tonight, Lissa.”
Those sapphire eyes twinkled with humor. “You’re gonna have to
slaughter some babies or kittens or something to make up for it,
huh?”
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The
Pardoner's Wallet
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
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are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The Pardoner's Wallet

Author: Samuel McChord Crothers

Release date: March 16, 2024 [eBook #73172]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Company,

1905

Credits: Alan, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file
was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

PARDONER'S WALLET ***
 By Samuel M. Crothers

THE PARDONER’S WALLET. 12mo, $1.25, net. Postage

extra.
THE ENDLESS LIFE. 16mo, gilt top, 85 cents, net.
Postage extra.
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THE PARDONER’S WALLET
 The Pardoner’s
Wallet
BY SAMUEL McCHORD CROTHERS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1905
COPYRIGHT 1905 BY SAMUEL McCHORD CROTHERS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published November 1905
 TO KATHARINE
WITH WHOM THESE THINGS HAVE
BEEN TALKED OVER
 PREFACE

T HERE is a well-grounded prejudice against a volume which

exhibits no marks of design and which turns out to be only a
fortuitous collection of essays. It is felt that the chapters brought
together under the cover of a single book should have something in
common. When one sees a number of subjects, each standing aloof
from the others, he predicts infelicity. It suggests incompatibility of
temper.
The essays brought together in “the Pardoner’s Wallet” have at least
a certain community of interest. They treat of aspects of human
nature which, while open to friendly criticism, are excusable. If the
author sometimes touches upon the foibles of his betters, he at least
has the grace to know that they are his betters.
 CONTENTS
PAGE

THE PARDONER 1
UNSEASONABLE VIRTUES 23
AN HOUR WITH OUR PREJUDICES 46
HOW TO KNOW THE FALLACIES 82
THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE PEACEMAKERS 119
THE LAND OF THE LARGE AND CHARITABLE
AIR 140
A COMMUNITY OF HUMORISTS 176
A SAINT RECANONIZED 199
AS HE SEES HIMSELF 221
A MAN UNDER ENCHANTMENT 249
THE CRUELTY OF GOOD PEOPLE 267
 THE PARDONER

With him ther rood a gentil Pardoner

Of Rouncival, his freend and his compeer,
That streight was comen fro the Court of Rome.
·································
A vernicle hadde he sowed on his cappe
His walet lay biforn him in his lappe
Bretful of pardoun.

I HAVE no plea to make for this fourteenth-century pardoner. He was an

impudent vagabond, trafficking in damaged goods. One did not need to
be a Lollard in order to see that he was a reprehensible character.
Discerning persons in need of relics would go to responsible dealers
where they could be assured of getting their money’s worth. This glib-
tongued fellow peddling religious articles from door to door lived on the
credulity of untraveled country people. He took advantage of their
weaknesses. Many a good wife would purchase a pardon she had no
need of, simply because he offered it as a bargain. This was all wrong.
We all know how the business of indulgence-selling was overdone. There
was a general loss of confidence on the part of the purchasing public; and
at last in the days of the too enterprising Tetzel there came a disastrous
slump. There was no market for pardons, even of the gilt-edged varieties.
Since then very little has been doing in this line, at least among the
northern nations.
The pardoner richly deserved his fate. And yet there are times when one
would give something to see the merry knave coming down the road.
I suppose that the nature of each individual has its point of moral
saturation. When this point is reached, it is of no use to continue
exhortation or rebuke or any kind of didactic effort. Even the finest quality
of righteous indignation will no longer soak in. With me the point of moral
saturation comes when I attend successively more meetings of a
reformatory and denunciatory character than nature intended me to profit
by. If they are well distributed in point of time, I can take in a considerable
number of good causes and earnestly reprobate an equal number of
crying evils. But there is a certain monotony of rebuke which I am sure is
not beneficial to persons of my disposition. That some things are wrong I
admit, but when I am peremptorily ordered to believe that everything is
wrong, it arouses in me a certain obstinacy of contradiction. I might be led
to such a belief, but I will not be driven to it. I rebel against those censors
of manners and morals who treat all human imperfectnesses with equal
rigor. To relax even for an instant the righteous frown over the things that
are going wrong, into an indulgent smile at the things that are not nearly
so bad as they seem, is in their eyes nothing less than compounding a
felony. If they would allow proper intervals between protests, so that the
conscience could cool down, all would be well. But this is just what they
will not allow. The wheels must go round without intermission until
progress is stopped by the disagreeable accident of “a hot box.”
You remember after Mrs. Proudie had given her guests a severe lesson in
social ethics, the Signora asked in her hearing,—
“‘Is she always like this?’
“‘Yes—always—madam,’ said Mrs. Proudie, returning; ‘always the same
—always equally adverse to impropriety of conduct of every description.’”
Mrs. Proudie was an excellent woman according to her light, yet
Barchester would have been a happier place to live in had her light been
less constant. A little flicker now and then, a momentary relief from the
glare, would have been appreciated.
It is when the note of personal responsibility has been forced beyond my
ability that I feel beneath my inherited Puritanism the stirring of a vague
Papistry. Instead of joining another protesting society beginning with that
feverish particle “anti,” how delightful it would be to go out and dicker with
a well-conditioned pardoner

Streight comen fro the Court of Rome!

Wearied with diatribes and resolutions, one falls back upon the guileless
bargainings of Simple Simon.
“Let me taste your ware,” say I.
“Show me first your penny,” says the pardoner.
There is a renewal of one’s youth in this immortal repartee.
There is no greater relief than to go out and buy something, especially if
one can buy it cheap. A great part of the attractiveness of the mediæval
indulgences lay in the fact that you could buy them. They would not have
seemed the same if they had been given away, or if you had to work them
out like a road tax. To go out and buy a little heart’s ease was an
enticement.
Then again, the natural man, when he has to do with an institution, is in a
passive rather than in an active mood. If it is instituted for his betterment,
he says, “Let it better me.” It seems too bad that in the end it should throw
all the responsibility back upon himself.
A delightful old English traveler criticises the methods of transportation he
found in vogue in parts of Germany. He says that on the Rhine it was
customary to make the passengers do the rowing. “Their custome is that
the passengers must exercise themselves with oares and rowing, alternis
vicibus, a couple together. So that the master of the boate (who methinks
in honestie ought either to do it himself or to procure some others to do it
for him) never roweth but when his turne commeth. This exercise both for
recreation and health sake is I confesse very convenient for man. But to
be tied unto it by way of strict necessitie when one payeth well for his
passage was a thing that did not a little distaste my humour.”
This is the trouble which many of us find in the modern methods of doing
good. There are all sorts of organizations which promise well. But no
sooner have we embarked on a worthy undertaking than we find that we
are expected to work our passage. The officers of the boat disclaim all
further responsibility, leaving that to private judgment. It is the true
Protestant way and it works excellently well, when it works at all. It offers
a fine challenge to disinterested virtue. But there are occasions when the
natural man rebels. To have so much put upon him doth “not a little
distaste his humour.” He longs for the good old times when there were
thinkers who were not above their business, and who when he was at his
wit’s end would do his thinking for him. It’s the same way with being
excused for his shortcomings. Of course on a pinch he can excuse
himself, but he generally makes a pretty poor job of it. It would be much
more satisfactory to have a duly authorized person who, for a
consideration, would assume the whole responsibility. Of course if he had
done something that was really unpardonable, that would be another
matter. The law would have to take its course. But there are a great many
venial transgressions. What he wants is some one who can assure him
that they are venial.
Let no good Protestant take offense at the finding of a Pardoner’s Wallet
in this twentieth century. It is only a wallet containing tentative suggestions
concerning things pardonable. Nothing is authoritatively signed and
sealed.
Of one thing let the good Protestant take notice. I would have my
pardoner know his place. He must not meddle with things too high for
him. He has no right to deal with the graver sins or to speak for a higher
power. He must not speak even in the name of the Church, which has
worthier spokesmen than he. In a book on indulgences the author says,
“On the subject of elongated, centenary, and millenary pardons, it would
take too much space to enlarge.” I should rule out all such ambitious
plans, not only from lack of space but on conscientious grounds.
My pardoner should confine himself to a more modest task. He should be
the spokesman not of any ecclesiastical power, but only of ordinary and
errant human nature. There are sins against eternal law that must at all
times be taken seriously. The trouble with us poor mortals is that, even in
our remorse, we do not take very long views. The judgment that seems
most terrible to us is that of the people who live next door. The
transgressions which loom largest are offenses against social conventions
and against our own sensitive vanity. The pangs of remorse for an act of
remembered awkwardness are likely to be more poignant than those
which come as retribution for an acknowledged crime.
Here is ample room for a present-day pardoner. I should like to hear him
make the cheery proclamation of his trade.
“Good friends: You are not what you would like to be. You are not what
you think you are. You are not what your neighbors think you are,—or
rather, you are not what you think your neighbors think you are. Your
foibles, your peccadillos, your fallacies, and your prejudices are more
numerous than you imagine. But take heart of grace, good people. These
things are not unpardonable. We indulgencers have learned to make
allowances for human nature. Let’s see what’s in my wallet! No crowding!
Each will be served in his turn.”

* * * * * *
If I were a duly licensed pardoner, I should have a number of nicely
engraved indulgences for what are called sins of omission. Not that I
should attempt to extenuate the graver sort. I should not hold out false
hopes to thankless sons or indifferent husbands. To be followed by such
riff-raff would spoil my trade with the better classes. I should not have
anything in my wallet for the acrimonious critic, who brings a railing
accusation against his neighbor, and omits to sign his name. Some
omissions are unpardonable.
I should, at the beginning, confine my traffic to those sins which easily
beset conscientious persons about half past two in the morning. We have
warrant for thinking that the sleep of the just is refreshing. This is
doubtless true of the completely just; but with the just man in the making it
is frequently otherwise. There is a stage in his strenuous moral career
which is conducive to insomnia.
Having gone to sleep because he was tired, he presently awakes for the
same reason. He is, however, only half awake. Those kindly comforters,
Common-sense, Humor, and Self-esteem, whose function it is to keep
him on reasonably good terms with himself while he is doing his
necessary work, are still dozing.
Then Conscience appears,—a terrible apparition. There is a vague
menace in her glance. The poor wretch cowers beneath it. Then is
unrolled the lengthening list of the things left undone which ought to have
been done. Every unwritten letter and uncalled call and unattended
committee meeting and unread report emerges from the vasty deep and
adds its burden of unutterable guilt. The Thing That Was Not Worth Doing
arises and demands with insatiate energy that it be done at once. The
Thing Half-done, because there was no time to finish it, appears with wan
face accusing him of its untimely taking off. The Stitch not Taken in Time
appears with its pitiful ninefold progeny all doomed because of a
moment’s inattention. It seems that his moral raiment, instead of being put
together with an eye to permanency, has been stitched on a single-thread
machine and the end of the seam never properly fastened. Now he is
pulling at the thread, and he sees the whole fabric unraveling before his
eyes.
His past existence looms before him as a battlefield with a perpetual
conflict of duties,—each duty cruelly slain by its brother duty. While the
wailing of these poor ghosts is in his ears he cannot rest. And yet he
knows full well that at half past two in the morning the one inexorable duty
is that he should go to sleep. Conscience points to this as another duty
left undone. Then begins a new cycle of self-reproach.
At such times the sight of an indulgence neatly framed hanging upon the
bedroom wall would be worth more than it would cost. It would save
doctor’s bills.
Even in our waking hours there is a tendency for the sins of omission and
the sorrows of omission to pile up in monstrous fashion. There is a
curious ingenuity which some persons have in loading themselves with
burdens which do not belong to them, and in extracting melancholy
reflections out of their good fortune. They will not frankly accept a
blessing in its own proper form,—it must come to them in a mournful
disguise. Poets seem particularly subject to these inversions of feeling.
Here are some lines entitled “Two Sorrows:”—

Before Love came my eyes were dim with tears

Because I had not known her gentle face.
Softly I said, “But when across the years
Her smile illumes the darkness of my place,
All grief from my poor heart she will efface.”

Now Love is mine—she walks with me for aye

Down paths of primrose and blue violet,
But on my heart at every close of day
A grief more keen than my old grief is set.
I weep for those who have not found Love yet.

There is a fine altruism about this sentiment that one cannot but respect;
yet I should hate to live with a person who felt that way. One would not
venture on any little kindness for fear of opening a new floodgate of tears.
I should feel like urging another point of view. It is true that you are happy,
happier than you deserve. But don’t get morbid about it; take it cheerfully.
It’s not your fault. It seems selfish, you say, to enjoy your blessings when
there aren’t enough to go round among all your fellow beings. Why, my
dear fellow, that’s the only way to make them go around. What if,
theoretically, it is a little selfish? We will readily pardon that for the sake of
the satisfaction we get out of seeing you have a good time. We much
prefer that you should allow us to sympathize with you in your happiness,
rather than that you should inflict upon us too much sympathy for our
deprivations.
 * * * * * *
There is opportunity for a thriving trade in indulgences for necessarily
slighted work. I emphasize the idea of necessity, for I am aware of the
danger of gross abuse if poets and painters should get the notion that
they may find easy absolution for the sin of offering to the public
something less than their best. Their best is none too good. We must not,
through misdirected charity, lower the standards of self-respecting artists.
But some of us are not artists. The ordinary man is compelled to spend
most of his time on pot-boilers of one kind or another. When the pot is
merrily boiling, and all the odds and ends are being mingled in a savory
stew, I would allow the ordinary man some satisfaction. As fingers were
made before forks, so mediocrity was made before genius. Has
mediocrity no right to enjoy its own work, just because it is not the very
best?
We of the commonalty who are fitted to live happily in the comparative
degree, allow ourselves to be bullied by the superlative. There are uneasy
spirits who trouble Israel. They continually quote the maxim that whatever
is worth doing is worth doing well. It is a good maxim in its way, and
causes no particular hardship until our eyes are opened and we see what
it means to do anything superlatively well. When we are shown by
example the technical excellence which is possible in the simplest forms
of activity, and the extent to which we fall short, we are appalled. It is a
wonder that we keep going at all when we consider the slovenly way we
breathe. And yet breathing, though it well might engage all our attention,
is only one of the things we have to do.
I attribute a good deal of the sense of stress in modern life to the new
standards of excellence that are set in regard to the multifarious activities
which make up our daily lives. We have to do a hundred different things.
This is not particularly trying so long as it is merely touch and go. In our
amateurish way we rather enjoy the variety. But when a hundred experts
beset us, each one of whom has made a life study of a particular act, we
are bowed in contrition. There is no good in us but good intentions, and
they cannot save us. Our life story is summed up like that of the
unfortunate sparrow in the tragical history of Cock Robin:

His aim then he took

But he took it not right.
Our capacity for imperfectness seems absolutely unlimited. The effort
taken to achieve success in one direction is from another point of view a
dissipation of energy. It is so much power withdrawn from another
possible achievement. The most versatile men do not do all things equally
well, and while the world calls them successful they are inwardly
conscious of their manifold failures. Mr. Balfour as Prime Minister of the
British Empire has had much to gratify his ambition, but he takes the
public into his confidence and confesses that he is a bitterly disappointed
man. For, in addition to other accomplishments, he plays golf, a game that
develops a conscience of its own. He plays well, but his conscience tells
him that he does not play as well as he might. “I belong,” he says, “to that
unhappy class of beings forever pursued by remorse, who are conscious
that they threw away in youth opportunities that were open to them of
beginning golf at a time of life when alone the muscles can be attuned to
the full perfection required by the most difficult game that perhaps exists.”
Surely there must be a way by which such vain regrets may be stilled. Life
has its inevitable compromises. We cannot always be at our best. Take
such a simple matter as that of masticating our food. Before I had given
much thought to it, I should have said that it was something worth doing
and worth doing well. When I learned that Mr. Gladstone was accustomed
to chew each morsel of food thirty-two times, I thought it greatly to his
credit. For a man who had so many other things to do, that seemed
enough.
But when I read a book of some three hundred pages containing the
whole duty of man in regard to chewing, I was disheartened. Mr.
Gladstone appeared to be a mere tyro guilty of bolting his food. “The
author has found that one fifth of the midway section of the garden young
onion, sometimes called shallot, has required seven hundred and twenty-
two mastications before disappearing through involuntary swallowing.”
The author evidently did his whole duty by that young onion, and yet I
should have pardoned him if he had done something less. That doctrine
of his about involuntary swallowing being the only kind that is morally
justifiable, seems to me to be too austere. If we have to swallow in the
end, why not show a cheerful willingness?

* * * * * *
Not only do those need comfort who do less than is expected of them,
those who do more are often in an equally sorry plight. Their excellences
make them obnoxious to their neighbors, and are treated as
unpardonable offenses. I would have a special line of indulgences for that
class of people known as the “unco guid.” I know no persons more in
need of charity, and who get so little of it. Every man’s hand is against
them, especially every hand that wields the pen of a ready writer. They
seem predestinated to literary reprobation, and that without regard to their
genuinely good works or to their continuance in the same. And yet the
whole extent of their crime is that, being in some respects better than their
neighbors, they are painfully aware of the fact. It is because they have
tasted of the forbidden knowledge of their own moral superiority that their
fall is deemed irremediable.
I confess that, in spite of all that has been said against them, I have a
tender feeling for them. They are persecuted for self-righteousness
without the benefit of any beatitude. Why should we consider it
unpardonable to be fully cognizant of one’s undoubted virtues? Of course
unconscious virtue is the more paradisiacal, while conscious virtue often
rubs one the wrong way. But while there are so many worse things in the
world, why should we mind a little thing like that?
We listen to Dumas’ swashbuckling heroes recounting their
transgressions. We know that they are not so bad as they would have us
believe, but we think no worse of them for that. But let a thoroughly
respectable man draw attention to his own fine qualities, and we treat
every deviation from exact fact as a crime. When he indulges in some
exaggeration and pictures himself as rather better than he is, we cry,
“Hypocrite!” If he claims possession of some single virtue which does not,
in our judgment, harmonize with some of his other characteristics, we
treat him as if he had stolen it. And yet, poor fellow! he may have come
honestly by this bit of finery, though he has not been able to get other
things to match it. All this is unkind.
Whatever one may think of the “unco guid,” every right-minded person
must agree with me that something ought to be done for the peace of
mind of the quiet, respectable, good people who bear the heat and
burden of the day. I have in mind the people who pay taxes, and build
homes, and support churches and schools and hospitals, and now and
then go to the theatre. They are as likely as not to be moderately well to
do, and if they are not, nobody knows it. When times are hard with them,
they keep their own counsels and go about with head erect and the best
foot forward. You may see multitudes of these people every day.