CLOUDED.
THE last crust was eaten; the last farthing was expended; the last
piece of firing was burnt; and Job Kippis sat, with his sinewy hands
lying idle upon his knees, and his eyes gazing into the empty grate.
It was a cold day—bitterly cold. The wind wailed and howled round the
old building, sending piercing gusts through every cranny. Snow had
been falling off and on for hours, in small flakes, and every housetop
bore a white covering. What a contrast between it and the grimy walls
around!
Old Job Kippis was alone. He did not know what had become of Ailie
during the last hour, but he was glad she was not present to see him in
his despair. For a tide of woe and mistrust had crept over Job, and in
very heart he was alone. A cloud had veiled his Heavenly Father's face.
Heaven itself seemed far away. He only felt utter desolation.
So hard as he had worked and striven, to come to this! Was it his own
fault? Had he indeed acted with weak imprudence in sheltering the
homeless orphan beneath his roof? John Forsyth had warned him that one
day he would rue it—that she might even bring him to the workhouse. It
seemed so now.
Did he regret doing it? Hardly. He loved his little Ailie—this
tender-hearted old man. But he was sorely bowed down and perplexed. So
strange it seemed to him. He had brought the little one into his home
to please his Master, and his Master showed no pleasure. He had trusted
in his Lord, and his Lord had forsaken him.
"Leastways, I can't see Him now," said Job, lifting his gaze to the
little window, where falling snowflakes and low clouds blotted out all
of heaven's blue. "I can't see Him, nor feel Him, nor hear Him. Don't
seem as if I could pray to Him. Ain't that bein' forsaken?"
Yes, surely he thought his Lord had forsaken him. He was entirely
alone. He had no strong Arm to depend upon, or he could feel none. He
had no loving Eye to guide him, or he could see none. His means were
at an end. He had no more money. He had no more food. He had no more
work. He was weak with fasting and weary with searching, and his limbs
had refused to carry him further. He had pawned already such trifling
articles as could be spared from among his scanty possessions.
"It'll come to nothin' but the work'us," said Job, in low tones. "An'
I did hope the Lord 'ud keep me out o' that, for the little o' my life
that's left. I'll have to send the child, an' go myself too."
Stooping more heavily forwards, he sat with his hands together, and his
eyes bent on the ground. He could almost have broken forth with little
Ailie's cry, "Oh, I don't want to go to the work'us—I don't want to
go!" But there was no one to hear him, and he only drooped in silence
beneath the dread of what he saw ahead.
So respectable and independent as he had been all his life, to come
to this in his old age! It was a sore trial. Yet Job thought he could
have borne it, but for the cloud of distrust which had gathered over
him. Was it all in love? Had his Master indeed marked the deed done to
please Him? Would the "cup of cold water" given to Ailie meet with a
reward?
"Not as I did it for a reward," muttered Job; "but I did think He'd ha'
helped me to get along. An' He hasn't. Ever since, I've been just goin'
down an' down, an' now the money's all used. There's nothin' left."
Mechanically he drew his Bible towards him, and with trembling hands
turned over a page or two.
But his eyes were dim, and his heart was heavy. The words of life that
he read seemed to drop like lead, one by one, as if they had no hope,
no meaning in them. He shut the volume at length with a groan.
"It's all over, an' I can't do nothin' more. I did think He wouldn't
ha' forsaken me in my old age. But sure my Lord knows best."
Those last words came to him unbidden, following upon the others by
mere force of habit. He had so often said them before from a full
and joyful heart. Job said them now without design; but somehow they
returned upon himself with singular force. "Sure He knows best. Why,
don't He now? Don't He always know best? Wouldn't He show me His Face
an' His glory this minute, if 'twas good for me?"
It was a little opening in the cloud, resulting from the mechanical
utterance of those few words, "My Lord knows best." Job felt certain
that it must be so. Down in his heart he knew it. But still the cloud
did not vanish.
He took up his Bible again, and turned slowly to the story of his
namesake in the early ages of the world,—of another Job bowed down
beneath God's chastening hand. He had often pondered in his simple
fashion over Job's conflicting faith in God, and confidence in self;
over his mingled strength and weakness; over his friends' harsh yet
perhaps not altogether untrue judgments passed upon him; and over God's
gracious teaching and condescension at the close.
He did not read on steadily now, but turned from one page to another,
gathering a verse here and there.
"'Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto
the bitter in soul?' * * *
"'For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that
which I was afraid of is come unto me. I was not in safety, neither
had I rest, neither was I quiet, yet trouble came.'
"So it has," said Job. "Nor I wasn't safe nor quiet neither, but I did
trust the Lord 'ud keep me.
"'Behold, happy is the man whom God correcteth: therefore despise not
thou the chastening of the Almighty.'"
Job shook his head. "It don't seem to make me happy. Ain't I wrong
there? Seems like as if I must be. I'll see how it goes on.
"'For He maketh sore and bindeth up. He woundeth and His hands make
whole. He shall deliver thee in six troubles, yea, in seven there shall
no evil touch thee.'
"'He shall deliver thee!'
"That's sayin' a deal," commented Job, falling into his usual habit.
"Sure, there's a true promise. An' no evil shall touch me! No evil at
all? Ain't it evil to be driven to the work'us? Why, no; not if 'tis
His will. Don't the Lord know best? Don't all things work together for
good, if I loves Him? Sure, there's no evil in that."
He was growing calmer now, though heavy-hearted still. The next verse
that caught his eye struck to his conscience.
"'Know, therefore, that God exacteth of thee less than thine iniquity
deserveth.'
"An' that's true, too, though 'twas one o' Job's three friends as said
it, an' they was none o' the wisest; but 'tis true. Who be I, a poor
sinful old man, to dare to complain o' the Lord Almighty's dealin's
with me?"
The next came very near his feelings, and caused a throbbing in his
heart. * * *
"'He hath stripped me of my glory and taken the crown from my head.'
"'Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends; for the hand
of God hath touched me.'
"Seems to me Job had forgot there about bein' happy when God
correcteth. No—'twasn't him as said that, neither, 'twas one o' his
friends—but tis true, for the Bible puts just the same in other parts
too, don't it? Where it says:
"'The Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy.'
"Ain't that the place? Well, I'll look on here, now, an' see how soon
Job gets up again from bein' in the depths. Why, sure!—
"'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"
Job stopped short. Coming almost immediately after that desponding
appeal for pity, it struck straight to his heart, with a glow of
triumphant confidence.
"Why, I knows it too, don't I? I knows He lives. Poor weak old man that
I be, a-doubting of His love. I knows He liveth, an' He loveth too, and
'll do the best as can be for me. I knows it all. Job Kippis, ye're an
old fool, to go doubtin' your Lord, 'cause He's hid His Face from you,
an' given you a taste o' trouble. What if He do? What if I goes to the
work'us? Ain't there a heaven an' glory awaitin' me? I know my Redeemer
liveth, that I do.
"'And that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.'"
Job read so far, and paused again, turning quickly to the twenty-fifth
chapter of Matthew.
"Aye, there it all be. He'll stand on the earth, an' He'll sit on His
throne too, and I'll stand before Him. And wouldn't I like to hear Him
say to me, 'I was an hungered and ye gave Me meat; I was thirsty and
ye gave Me drink; I was a stranger and ye took Me in.' An' if I falls
down at sight of His glory, an' asks when, He'll say as how I did it
unto Him, in doin' it for His sake to little Ailie. Sure I couldn't
have been wrong in helpin' the poor stray lamb. Sure the Lord 'll not
forsake old Job."
The light had come back now. Truly Job had found the Bible "a lamp
unto his path." Hungry, fasting, friendless, he might be still, but
the light of heaven's peace had returned, and Job smiled brightly once
more, for in the depths of his heart he could say, "I KNOW that my
Redeemer liveth."
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