A CHILD AND A LOGICIAN.
To describe the astonishment of Verty, as he hastily went out and
closed the door, would be impossible. His face passed from red to
pale, his eyes were full of bewilderment--he sat down, scarcely
knowing what he did,
Roundjacket sat writing at his desk, and either had not heard, or
pretended that he had not, any portion of the passionate colloquy.
Verty could do nothing all day, for thinking of the astonishing scene
he had passed through. Why should there be anything offensive in
raising the curtain of a portrait? Why should so good a man as Mr.
Rushton, address such insulting and harsh words to him for such a
trifling thing? How was it possible that the simple words, 'Trust in
God,' had been the occasion of such anger, nay, almost fury?
The longer Verty pondered, the less he understood; or at least he
understood no better than before, which amounted precisely to no
understanding at all.
He got through his day after a very poor fashion; and, going along
under the evening skies, cudgelled his brains, for the thousandth
time, for some explanation of this extraordinary circumstance. In
vain! the explanation never came; and finding himself near Apple
Orchard, the young man determined to banish the subject, and go in and
see Redbud.
The young girl had been imprudent in remaining out so late, on the
preceding evening, and her cold had returned, with slight fever,
which, however, gave her little inconvenience.
She lay upon the sofa, near the open window, with a shawl over her
feet, and, when Verty entered, half-rose, only giving him her hand
tenderly.
Verty sat down, and they began, to talk in the old, friendly way; and,
as the evening deepened, to laugh and mention old things which they
both remembered--uniting thus in the dim twilight all the golden
threads which bind the present to the past--gossamer, which are not
visible by the glaring daylight, but are seen when the soft twilight
descends on the earth.
Redbud even, at Verty's request, essayed one of the old Scottish songs
which he was fond of; and the gentle carol filled the evening with its
joy and musical delight. This was rather dangerous in Verty--surely
he was quite enough in love already! Why should he rivet the fetters,
insist upon a new set of shackles, and a heavier chain!
Verty told Redbud of the singular circumstance of the morning, and
demanded an explanation. Her wonder was as great as his own, however;
and she remained silently gazing at the sunset, and pondering. A shake
of the head betrayed her want of success in this attempt to unravel
the mystery, especially the lawyer's indignation at the words written
by Verty.
They passed from this to quite a grave discussion upon the truth of
the maxim in question, which Redbud and her companion, we may imagine,
did not differ upon. The girl had just said--"For you know, Verty,
everything is for the best, and we should not murmur,"--when a gruff
voice at the door replied:
"Pardon me, Miss Redbud--that is a pretty maxim--nothing more,
however."
And Mr. Rushton, cold and impassable, came in with the jovial Squire.
"So busy talking, young people, that you could not even look out the
window when I approach with visitors, eh?" cried the Squire, chuckling
Miss Redbud under the chin, and driving the breath out of Verty's body
by a friendly slap upon that gentleman's back. "Well, here we are, and
there's Lavinia--bless her heart--with an expression which indicates
protestation at the loudness of my voice, ha! ha!"
And the Squire laughed in a way which shook the windows.
Miss Lavinia smiled in a solemn manner, and busied herself about tea.
Redbud turned to Mr. Rushton, who had seated himself with an
expression of grim reserve, and, smiling, said:
"I did not hear you--exactly what you said--as you came in, you know,
Mr. Rushton--"
"I said that your maxim, 'All is for the best,' is a pretty maxim, and
no more," replied the lawyer, regarding Verty with an air of rough
indifference, as though he tad totally forgotten the scene of the
morning.
"I'm sure you are wrong, sir," Redbud said.
"Very likely--to be taught by a child!" grumbled the lawyer.
Redbud caught the words.
"I know I ought not to dispute with you, sir," she said; "but what I
said is in the Bible, and you know that cannot contain what is not
true."
"Hum!" said Mr. Rushton. "That was an unhappy age--and the philosophy
of Voltaire and Rousseau had produced its effect even on the strongest
minds."
"God does all for the best, and He is a merciful and loving Being,"
said Redbud. "Even if we suffer here, in this world, every affliction,
we know that there is a blessed recompense in the other world."
"Humph!--how?" said the skeptic.
"By faith?"
"What is faith?" he said, looking carelessly at the girl.
"I don't know that I can define it better than belief and trust in
God," said Redbud.
These were the words which Verty had written on the paper.
The glance of the lawyer fell upon the young man's face, and from
it passed to the innocent countenance of Redbud. She had evidently
uttered the words without the least thought of the similarity.
"Humph," said the lawyer, frowning, "that is very fine, Miss; but
suppose we cannot see anything to give us a very lively--faith, as you
call it."
"Oh, but you may, sir!"
"How?"
"Everywhere there are evidences of God's goodness and mercy. You
cannot doubt that."
A shadow passed over the rough face.
"I do doubt it," was on his lips, but he could not, rude as he was,
utter such a sentence in presence of the pure, childlike girl.
"Humph," he said, with his habitual growl, "suppose a man is made
utterly wretched in this world--"
"Yes, sir."
"And without any fault of his own suffers horribly," continued the
lawyer, sternly.
"We are all faulty, sir."
"I mean--did anybody ever hear such reasoning! Excuse me, but I am a
little out of sorts," he growled, apologetically--"I mean that you
may suppose a man to suffer some peculiar torture--torture, you
understand--which he has not deserved. I suppose that has happened;
how can such a man have your faith, and love, and trust, and all
that--if we must talk theology!" growled the bearish speaker.
"But, Mr. Rushton," said Redbud, "is not heaven worth all the world
and its affections?"
"Yes--your heaven is."
"_My_ heaven--?"
"Yes, yes--heaven!" cried the lawyer, impatiently--"everybody's heaven
that chooses. But you were about to say--"
"This, sir: that if heaven is so far above earth, and those who are
received there by God, enjoy eternal happiness--"
"Very well!"
"That this inestimable gift is cheaply bought by suffering in this
world;--that the giver of this great good has a right to try even to
what may seem a cruel extent, the faith and love of those for whom he
decrees this eternal bliss. Is not that rational, sir?"
"Yes, and theological--what, however, is one to do if the said love
and faith sink and disappear--are drowned in tears, or burnt up in the
fires of anguish and despair."
"Pray, sir," said Redbud, softly.
The lawyer growled.
"To whom? To a Being whom we have no faith in--whom such a man has no
faith in, I mean to say--to the hand that struck--which we can
only think of as armed with an avenging sword, or an all-consuming
firebrand! Pray to one who stands before us as a Nemesis of wrath and
terror, hating and ready to crush us?--humph!"
And the lawyer wiped his brow.
"Can't we think of the Creator differently," said Redbud, earnestly.
"How?"
"As the Being who came down upon the earth, and suffered, and wept
tears of blood, was buffeted and crowned with thorns, and crucified
like a common, degraded slave--all because he loved us, and would not
see us perish? Oh! Mr. Rushton, if there are men who shrink from the
terrible God--who cannot love _that_ phase of the Almighty, why should
they not turn to the Saviour, who, God as he was, came down and
suffered an ignominious death, because he loved them--so dearly loved
them!"
Mr. Rushton was silent for a moment; then he said, coldly:
"I did not intend to talk upon these subjects--I only intended to say,
that trusting in Providence, as the phrase is, sounds very grand; and
has only the disadvantage of not being very easy. Come, Miss Redbud,
suppose we converse on the subject of flowers, or something that is
more light and cheerful."
"Yes, sir, I will; but I don't think anything is more cheerful than
Christianity, and I love to talk about it. I know what you say about
the difficulty of trusting wholly in God, is true; it is very hard.
But oh! Mr. Rushton, believe me, that such trust will not be in vain;
even in this world Our Father often shows us that he pities our
sufferings, and His hand heals the wound, or turns aside the blow. Oh,
yes, sir! even in this world the clouds are swept away, and the sun
shines again; and the heart which has trusted in God finds that its
trust was not in vain in the Lord. Oh! I'm sure of it, sir!--I feel
it--I know that it is _true_!"
And Redbud, buried in thought, looked through the window--silent,
after these words which we have recorded.
The lawyer only looked strangely at her--muttered his "humph," and
turned away. Verty alone saw the spasm which he had seen in the
morning pass across the rugged brow.
While this colloquy had been going on, the Squire had gone into his
apartment to wash his hands; and now issuing forth, requested an
explanation of the argument he had heard going on. This explanation
was refused with great bearishness by the lawyer, and Redbud said they
had only been talking about Providence.
The Squire said that was a good subject; and then going to his
escritoire took out some papers, placed them on the mantel-piece, and
informed Mr. Rushton that those were the documents he desired.
The lawyer greeted this information with his customary growl, and
taking them, thrust them into his pocket. He then made a movement to
go; but the Squire persuaded him to stay and have a cup of tea. Verty
acquiesced in his suggestion that _he_ should spend the evening, with
the utmost readiness--_ma mere_ would not think it hard if he remained
an hour, he said.
And so the cheerful meal was cheerfully spread, and the twigs in the
fire-place crackled, and diffused their brief, mild warmth through
the cool evening air, and Caesar yawned upon the rug, and all went
merrily.
The old time-piece overhead ticked soberly, and the soft face of
Redbud's mother looked down from its frame upon them; and the room was
full of cheerfulness and light.
And still the old clock ticked and ticked, and carried all the world
toward eternity; the fire-light crackled, and the voices laughed;--the
portrait looked serenely down, and smiled.