BUD IN SEARCH OF COMFORT.
LET me tell you that sentences which you believe will be as Greek to
certain souls, are sometimes fraught with wonderful meaning, because of
an illumination about which you know nothing. It was so with Bud.
Back in his memory of those bright days when little Jack was still in
the flesh, were certain scenes standing out vividly. Little Jack had
a mother, a good, fat, motherly, commonplace sort of woman, with no
knowledge of, or care for, Bud, beyond the fact that she wanted him
always to have enough to eat and a comfortable place in which to sleep,
and was glad that little Jack liked him so well, simply because it was
a liking that gave little Jack pleasure. This was all that she would
have been to you; but to Bud she would have served for his ideal of an
angel, had he known anything about angels.
She was little Jack's mother, and she was motherly, and Bud had never
seen a motherly woman before; perhaps, after all, you get an idea of
why she was glorified in his eyes. His own mother slept in a neglected
grave, when Bud was five years old, but after he came to live at little
Jack's, he had lain awake nights to think how she would have looked,
and acted, and spoken, had she been alive. And she always looked to
him like this one motherly pattern. How Bud longed for her, for the
sound of her voice, for the touch of her hand, only he could have
told you. Little Jack had been in the habit of running to mother with
every disappointment, every grievance, every pain. He had never been
a healthy, rollicking, self-reliant boy, but a gentle, tender one, to
be shielded and petted; and Bud had heard again and again and _again_
these words, spoken oh! so tenderly, that the memory of them now
often brought the tears: "Poor little Jack! mother will comfort him!"
and the words were accompanied with a gesture that framed itself in
Bud's heart--the enveloping of little Jack's frail form within two
strong motherly arms, suggestive to the boy of boundless power and
protectiveness. Could words better fitted to meet Bud's heart have been
marked in his Bible? Would Claire Benedict have been likely to have
marked that particular verse for him?
It is a truth that a certain class of Christian workers need to ponder
deeply, that when we have done our best, according to the measure of
our opportunities, we may safely leave the Holy Spirit to supplement
our work.
The next morning, Bud thoughtfully rubbed the shining coats of the
horses, his mind awake and busy with a new problem. What did the verse
mean, that he had read so many times, that now it seemed to glow before
him on the sun-lighted snow? He had wakened in the night and wondered.
What _could_ it mean? Not that he did not understand some of it; he
was too unenlightened to imagine that plain words could mean other than
they said.
It had not so much as occurred to him that, because they were in the
Bible, they must necessarily have some obscure meaning utterly foreign
to what they appeared to say.
Such logic as that is only the privilege of certain of the educated
classes! Bud knew then, what some of the sentence meant. Somebody was
to be comforted by somebody, and the way it was to be done was as
a mother would do, and Bud, because of little Jack in heaven, knew
how that was. Oh, little Jack! living your short and uneventful life
here below, and oh! commonplace, yes, somewhat narrow-minded mother!
bestowing only the natural instincts of the mother-heart on your
boy--both of you were educating a soul for the King's palace, and you
knew it not!
How wonderful will the revelations of heaven be, when certain whose
lives have touched for a few days and then separated, shall meet, in
some of the cycles of eternity, and talk things over!
Who but the Maker of human hearts could have planned Bud's education in
this way?
Well, he knew another thing. The Comforter promised must be Jesus;
for had not _she_, that only other one who had spoken to him in
disinterested kindness, said that Jesus, the same Jesus who had been
so much to little Jack, was waiting for him, and wanted him to come up
to heaven where Jack was? And if Jesus could do such great things for
Jack, and really wanted _him_ could he not plan the way? Bud believed
it. To be shown the way to reach such a place as Jack told of, and
to be made ready to enter there when he should reach the door, would
certainly be comfort enough. He could almost imagine that One saying
to the little hurts by the way: "Never mind, Bud; it will be all right
by and by." That was what the mother used cheerily to say sometimes to
little Jack, and the verse read, "as one whom his mother comforteth."
You see how the photographs of his earlier years were educating Bud.
But there was one thing shrouded in obscurity. This "comforting" was
to be done at Jerusalem. Now what and where was Jerusalem? Poor Bud!
he had "never had no book," you will remember, and his knowledge of
geography was limited indeed. He knew that this village which had
almost bounded his life was named South Plains; and he knew that back
in the country among the farms was where little Jack had lived, and
he knew the name of the city that lay in the opposite direction; none
of these were Jerusalem. Bud did not know, however, but that the next
city, or town, or even farming region might answer to that name, and
might be the spot to which those who would have comfort were directed.
Little Jack might have lived there, for aught that he knew; they came
from some other place to the farm, Miss Benedict might be from there,
in which case she would know how to direct him! I want you to take
special notice of one thing. It lay clear as sunlight in the boy's
ignorant mind. _To Jerusalem he meant to go._ And as to time: just as
soon as he possibly could, he should start. As to how he should manage
by the way, or what he should do after he reached that country, he made
no speculations; the road was too dark for that. All that he was sure
of was that he would _start_.
"I wouldn't miss of little Jack for anything," he said, rubbing with
energy; "and as for the 'comforting,' if that can be for me--and she
said so--why, I'd go till I dropped, to find it."
A clear voice broke in on his thoughts:
"Bud, mamma wants the light carriage and the pony to be ready to take
her to the 12.20 train."
"Yes'm," said Bud, and he had as yet not a thought of saying anything
else.
But Miss Alice lingered and watched the rubbing; not that she was
interested in that, or, indeed, was thinking about it at all. She was
watching Bud, and thinking of him. What did Claire Benedict find in him
to interest her? What did she suppose that she, Alice Ansted, could
do to help him? The idea seemed fully as absurd as it had when first
suggested.
As if the boy had an idea above the horse he was rubbing so carefully!
He did not look as intelligent as the animal. She had often wondered
what the horses thought about, as they trotted along. What did Bud
think about as he rubbed? Did he think at all?
"You seem to like that work?"
It was Miss Alice's voice again. It startled Bud, the tone was so
gentle, as though possibly she might be saying the words to comfort
him. He dropped the brush with which he had been working; but as he
stooped to pick it up, answered respectfully,
"Yes, ma'am."
Alice's lip curled. The idea of Miss Benedict trying to interest her in
a boor like that, who could not reply to the merest commonplace without
growing red in the face and blundering over his work! She turned to
go. She could not think of anything else to say, and if she could,
what use to say it? But in that one moment of time, Bud had taken his
resolution. The voice had been kind; its echo lingered pleasantly; he
would summon all his courage and ask the question which was absorbing
his thoughts. It might be days before he could see Miss Benedict again,
and he could not wait.
"Miss Ansted," he said, and she noticed that his voice trembled, "would
you tell me one thing that I want to know right away?"
"That depends," she answered lightly; "I may not know. However, if your
question is not too deep, I may try to answer it. What do you want?"
"Why, I've got to know _right away_ where Jerusalem is."
"Jerusalem!" she repeated. "Why on earth do you wish to know that? I
don't know myself, precisely. It is across the ocean somewhere in Asia,
you know. Why do you care, Bud, where it is?"
"I've got to go there," said Bud, with simple dignity.
Miss Ansted's laugh rang out merrily.
"That is an undertaking!" she said, gayly. "When do you intend to
start? and what is the object of the journey, I wonder?" She felt sure
now that Bud was little less than an idiot.
But Bud had another question to ask. His face was grave, almost
dismayed. "Across the ocean!" That sentence appalled. He had heard of
the ocean, and of a storm on it, and a shipwreck. A wandering sailor
once told in his hearing a fearful story of wreck and peril. Yet, be it
recorded that the boy, though appalled, did not for one moment recede
from his fixed resolved to start, and go as far as he could. That
Comforter he meant to find. It had taken such hold of his heart that
he knew he could never give it up again. This was his next timidly-put
question:
"Did you ever go there, Miss Ansted?"
"I never did," she answered, laughing still, and very curious now to
know what queer project poor Bud had on his mind. "Why do you want to
go, Bud?"
The answer was direct and grave.
"I want to go after Him who said He would comfort me. 'Ye shall be
comforted in Jerusalem,' that is what it says, and _she_ said it meant
me, and little Jack went, I make sure, and I mean to go. I _must_ go."
But before that answer, Alice Ansted stood dumb. She had never been
so amazed in her life! What did the fellow mean? What could have so
completely turned his foolish brain? "If this is the outcome of Miss
Benedict's efforts, she ought to know it at once, before the poor idiot
concludes his career in a lunatic asylum."
This was her rapid thought, but aloud she said, at last:
"I don't know what you are talking about, Bud. You have some wild idea
that does not seem to be doing you any good. I would advise you to drop
it and think about the horses; they are your best friends."
"I can't drop it," said Bud, simply; "I read the verse in the Bible;
I promised I would, and I did, and I know all about it, and I want to
have it; _she_ said it was for me."
"What is the verse?" and Miss Alice sat down on a carriage-stool to
listen.
Bud repeated with slow and solemn emphasis the words which were now
so familiar to his ear: "As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I
comfort you: and ye shall be comforted in Jerusalem."
"I know about mothers," he explained. "There was little Jack's mother,
and she used to say to him just that, 'Mother will comfort you,' and
she did. And this one I make sure is Jesus, because _she_ said he
wanted me to go where little Jack is, and I guess he means me, because
I feel as if he did, and I'm going to Jerusalem, if it is across two
oceans."
Evidently his heart gathered strength as he talked; his voice grew
firmer, and the dignity of a fixed resolve began to settle on his face.
Was there ever a more bewildered young lady than this one who sat on
the carriage stool? She surveyed Bud with the sort of half-curious,
half-frightened air, which she might have bestowed on a mild maniac
whose wanderings interested her. What was she to say to him? How
convince him of his queer mistake?
"That doesn't mean what you think it does, Bud," she began at last.
"Why doesn't it?" Bud asked, quickly; almost as one would speak who was
holding on to a treasure which another was trying to snatch from him.
"Because it doesn't. It has nothing to do with the city named
Jerusalem. It is about something that you don't understand. It has a
spiritual meaning; and of course you don't understand what I mean by
that! I haven't the least idea how to explain it to you, and indeed,
it is extremely unnecessary for you to know. You see, Bud, it means
something entirely beyond your comprehension, and has nothing whatever
to do with you."
Bud made not the slightest attempt at answer, but went stolidly on
with his work. And Alice sat still and surveyed him for a few minutes
longer, then arose and shook out her robes, and said, "So I hope you
will not start for Jerusalem yet awhile," and laughed, and sped through
the great, sliding doors, and picked her way daintily back to luxury,
leaving the world blank for Bud.
Miss Ansted was wise about the world, and about books; surely she would
know whether the verse meant him, and whether the word Jerusalem meant
_Jerusalem_. Was it all a mistake?
The pony was brought forward now and had her share of rubbing and
careful handling, and a bit of petting now and then, though the
conversation which generally went on between her and the worker was
omitted this morning. Bud had graver thoughts. While he worked he went
over the old memories. Little Jack, and the comforting mother, and the
facts connected with those experiences, no need to tell him that _they_
did not mean what they appeared to his eyes; he knew better. Then there
were the plain, simple words standing like a solid wall of granite: "As
one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you."
"Stand around!" said Bud, in a tone of authority; and while the gray
pony obeyed, he told her his resolve: "Them words mean _something_,
Dolly, and _she_ knows what they mean, and Bud is going to find out."
You are not to suppose that the pronoun referred to Alice Ansted. She
had said that she could not tell him what they meant.
If anybody had been looking on with wide-open eyes, it would have been
an interesting study in Providence to watch how Bud was led. It was
Alice Ansted who had a very little hand in it again, though she knew
nothing of it. The "leading" was connected, too, with so insignificant
a matter as an umbrella.
Mr. Ramsey had overtaken Louis Ansted in a rain-storm, a few days
before, and had insisted on lending his umbrella, and it suited Louis
Ansted's convenience to direct that it be sent home by Bud that morning.
Why Alice Ansted took the trouble to go herself to Bud with the
order, instead of sending a servant, she hardly knew, neither did she
understand why, after having given it, she should have lingered to say:
"I presume, Bud, that Mr. Ramsey can answer all the questions about
Jerusalem that you choose to ask."
Now Mr. Ramsey was the dreary minister who seemed to Claire Benedict to
have no life nor heart in any of his work.
Bud stood still to reflect over this new thought suggested to him with
a half-laugh. He did not think to thank Miss Alice, and yet he knew
that he was glad. It was true, the minister would be likely to know all
about it, and there might not be a chance to speak to Miss Benedict
again, and Bud felt that he could not wait. So, as he trudged off down
the carriage-drive, he took his resolution. He had never spoken a word
to a minister in his life, but he would ask to see him this morning,
and find out about Jerusalem if he could.