acknowledge to himself. Indeed he had no clear ideas of his feelings
about the little accident that had interrupted the dismal course of
his life; and he studiously avoided questioning himself too closely.
Only there came across him, every now and then, a sensation that there
was some special providence about it all, and that there was some
mysterious connection between this adventure and the words of the
apparitions who had spoken to him in the morning.
But "let be, let us see what will happen," was the ruling feeling, and
as he felt less miserable than usual, he did not wish to disturb the
pleasing dream by enquiries, why?
After his solitary dinner, as he was seated alone in his arm chair, he
was relapsing fast into his usual unhappy state of mind, for this was
at all times the most trying part of the day to him, when a knock at
the door aroused him.
Ah, it was the good old housekeeper again! She who, with the acute
instinct of sorrow-soothing which women so eminently possess, had
purposely come at this the young master's "dark hour," to try if it
could be kept back by the charm she had seen working a short time
before. "The little fellow is quite fit to come in now, Sir, if you'd
wish to see him before he's put to bed." And her efforts were rewarded
by seeing a look of interest light up poor Theodore's eye. The boy was
now ushered in, and his improved appearance and cleanliness were very
striking. Theodore took hold of his hand--"There, you need not be
afraid; you may sit down upon that chair. Are you comfortable?" "Yes."
"Have you had plenty to eat?" "Yes, plenty." And the child laughed a
little.
"I hope you are a good boy."
He looked stupid. "Can you say your prayers?"
"What's that?"
"Ah! I was afraid not. You never heard about God?" "Yes; but the woman
used to keep that to herself." "Keep what?"
"Why," _for God's sake_, when she begged. She didn't let me say it, but
she always said it herself; and then, when people wouldn't give us any
thing, she used to say--"
"No, no! I will not hear about that;" interrupted Theodore, "but I
hope some day you will learn about God."
"In the begging? must I say it in the begging next time?"
"No, I don't mean that; not in begging bread of people in the road,
but in praying."
"What's that?" "Begging." "Then I am to beg?" "No, not on the road,
but of a great good Being, who will never refuse what you ask."
"Is that _you_?"
"No, my poor boy; not me, but the great Being, called God, who lives
in the sky. You must beg all you want of Him."
"I don't know Him."
"No; but you will learn to know Him when you have listened to me and
prayed to Him."
"I don't know praying; I know begging."
"Well, then, when you have begged Him--"
"What am I to say?"
"First, you must say, 'Our Father--'"
"Father's dead," interrupted the boy;
"Ah, but I do not mean _that_ father," answered Theodore; "and how do
you know even that _that_ father is dead?"
"The woman said so. One day she told me Father and Mother were both
dead, and there was nobody left to love me, so I must mind her."
"The woman was wrong," cried Theodore compassionately. "You have
another Father, who never dies, and who loves you always!--"
A knock at the door interrupted Theodore's _lesson on the Love of
God_.
"It's about time the poor thing was put to bed," suggested the
housekeeper, looking in. "I dare say he's tired."
"I dare say he is," said Theodore mechanically. "Good night, little
boy. What used they to call you?"
"Reuben."
"Good night, little Reuben." And he was taken away.
_You have another Father who never dies and who loves you always_!
founded like an echo through the room. Theodore arose and looked
around, but there was no one there. He resumed his feat, and wondered
how he had got involved in teaching the beggar boy religion. He
lamented his awkwardness and unfitness for the talk; but still he
thought he had done right. As to his last assertion, how else could he
make the child comprehend God at all? Besides, how cruel it would be
to infect him with his own miserable convictions. They would come time
enough, perhaps!
Such was the current of his thoughts. The next morning he told the old
housekeeper of the boy's ignorance and his difficulty with him, and
engaged her to help him in his talk, which she readily undertook.
It is not my intention to describe the many endeavours Theodore made
to impress the first great truths of Christianity upon Reuben's mind;
but I can assure you he felt all the better for them himself. How it
was that he never sent the little boy to the workhouse you can guess.
For the first few days he kept him to see (as he said), if the woman
would come back for him. Then he wished him to stay till he and the
housekeeper had sufficiently impressed him by their lessons. And
then--why then--by degrees, all mention of the workhouse ceased, and
better clothes were bought for him; and the housekeeper, who was one
of the by-gone generation of warm-hearted old family servants, became,
for her master's sake, a perfect mother to him; and to Theodore he
involuntarily proved an object of daily increasing interest, and
finally, of strong personal affection.
And thus nearly a year passed over, during which time Theodore's
health and activity in a measure returned; but the cheerfulness of a
happy mind was still wanting. Reuben often lured him temporarily into
it, but he would again relapse, and had never given up his unhappy
theory, though now he dwelt upon it much less frequently than of old.
At the end of the year, however, Theodore was much distressed by
fancying that he detected Reuben in lying; and he was, besides, by no
means sure that little trifles were not taken from him by the child
for his own use and amusement. He communicated his suspicions to the
housekeeper, and alas! found his worst fears confirmed. The pain and
sorrow he felt at this discovery were of a kind totally new to him.
But the strongest feeling of all was, that he would not give up the
boy to vicious habits without a struggle (cost what it might) to save
him! The housekeeper told him, with tears, that she had observed
Reuben's habit of petty lying and taking any thing he fancied, very
soon after his admission to the house; but she confessed that she had
not had the heart to inform her young Master, lest he should send the
boy away who had seemed to take him so out of his trouble! This was
what she most thought about. So she had tried to correct the child
herself, but not with the success she had desired. "How little she
knows the heart," thought Theodore, "his evil propensities would have
been an additional claim upon my kindness!"
I will pass over all that Theodore said to the boy himself. No father
could have been more earnest, more solemn in his warnings, or more
kind in his expostulations. Reuben, by this time, could understand all
he said, and shame and repentance burnt in his face during a painful
interview. It is right to remind you, dear children, of the many
excuses that were to be made for him. He had been brought up, till
seven years old, in total ignorance of God, and without ever having
heard one duty commanded or one sin forbidden. The woman lied daily
and hourly in his sight, and made him do the same; and she took all
she could lay hold of in any way, and beat him if he did not follow
her example; and although Theodore's instructions had opened a new
world on the child's mind, the _evil_ HABITS were not so soon got rid
of. So there the mischief was; and now the great difficulty Theodore
felt, was to know what to do for the best. And, after much
consideration, he decided to send him to school, as the likeliest
means of eradicating the bad habits the boy had acquired. I say
_habits_, rather than dispositions, for there was indeed nothing mean
or sneaking about his character. On the contrary, he was both
courageous and generous in the turn of his mind, and, after his health
improved, his manners partook of the same freedom and candour.
To school therefore poor Reuben went; and Theodore was almost
astonished himself at the blank which his absence created.
But having desired that continued reports should be sent to him of his
conduct, he meanwhile began seriously to think what was to become of
him hereafter. At last it occurred to him that he might employ him in
some way or other about his property; and with a view to this,
Theodore himself began to take more interest in his estate than he had
had the energy to bestow before, and made himself more intimately
acquainted with the wants and modes of life of those under his
control.
Thus another year passed away in quiet but constant occupation; and
the many opportunities Theodore now had of doing good, softened and
cheered his mind. But he was not quite cured. For of all things in the
world whims are the very hardest to cure, because, reason as you will,
people still stick to their whims. Reuben was not allowed to return
once during that year to the old hall. During the last few months,
however, his progress had been most satisfactory, and the Master
considered that the evil was overcome; and so, at the end of the year,
Theodore wrote word to Reuben that he wished him to come "home" for
his holidays. Poor Reuben cried bitterly again when he read the
letter; for, as he said to the Master, "It is _not_ my home, though he
has been very good to me. I have no home!"
Theodore's heart overflowed with pleasure and almost pride when he saw
the boy again. Every turn in the expression of his face was improved;
and when Theodore first took his hand, the lad bent his face over it
and sobbed out an entreaty for pardon for his dreadful wickedness.
"Reuben," cried Theodore, "never say that again. All is forgotten
since your conduct is changed. Forget the past as soon as possible. It
will never be remembered by me."
Time went on during the holidays very happily on the whole. In fact
there was no drawback; but that now and then Theodore, who would often
sit looking at his adopted child's face, noticed a painful expression
which he could not account for. His conduct was irreproachable and his
respect for Theodore seemed, if possible, increased; but he would not
be frank with him, and no encouragement beguiled him into the ease of
trusted affection. Theodore did not choose to notice this for some
weeks, but, as the time of Reuben's return to school drew near, he was
unwilling to let him go without some expostulation.
"Reuben," said he one day, "you are going back to school. Your conduct
has quite satisfied me: but tell me, before you go, why you so often
look unhappy? It is a poor return (though I now touch on this subject
for the first time in my life), it is a poor return for the interest I
have taken in you; and for the real love you know I feel towards you!"
For a moment Reuben's large dark eyes glanced up at Theodore's face;
but they sank again as quickly: his cheeks grew crimson, and tears
rolled over them which he could not conceal.
"What is the matter, Reuben; what is the meaning of this? Am I loving
one who does not love me in return?"
"You _cannot_ love me, Sir!" ejaculated the boy so earnestly that it
quite startled his companion.
"Reuben, what _can_ you mean? Have you forgotten how I have taken you
and acted by you as if I had been your Father. I _cannot love_ you?
What else but _love_ for you has made me do what I have done?"
"That was all your goodness and the kindness of your heart, Sir. You
couldn't love me when you picked me up in the road. It was pity and
kindness, and it has been the same ever since; not _Love_--" and the
tears again struggled to his eyes.
Theodore rushed suddenly from the room and into his private apartment,
and falling on his knees, spread his hands over his head in prayer.
"My Lord and my God!" cried he solemnly, "what means this echo from my
own heart? Am I awake, or do I dream?" A profound silence was around
him; but, as he arose and opened his eyes, he beheld before him,
though fading rapidly from his sight, the angelic visions he had seen
two years before.
* * * * *
He returned to Reuben, who was sitting at the table, his face buried
in his arms.
Theodore laid his hand upon him. "Reuben, look up! You are under a
great mistake. You are but a boy, and must not fancy you know the ins
and outs of the human heart. Reuben, I do love you, and have always
loved you."
"You cannot, Sir!"
"Again? and why not?"
"You are too much above me; I am an outcast, and was a beggar. It
wasn't likely you could _love_ me at any time. Besides, there has been
something since."
"What?"
"You told me to forget it, Sir, but I cannot. After all your kindness
and goodness, and trying to make me happy and do me every good, I was
all along (during the first year), doing what was wrong, deceiving you
and injuring you. I am not only an outcast, but I have been wicked and
ungrateful, and made you unhappy by my misconduct. Indeed I cannot
bear to think of it; but I dare not deceive myself about your _Love_,
Sir! I know you _cannot_ love me; but I am so grateful to you for your
goodness, I hope you will not be angry with me for speaking the truth:
only, though I am grateful and try to be contented, I cannot be as
_happy_ as if you _did_ love me."
As Theodore gazed on poor Reuben's face, he saw standing behind him
the beautiful visions once more.
"Now judge by your own heart!" murmured the Spirits, as smiling they
disappeared.
And Theodore did so. Going up to Reuben, he put his arms around him,
and wept over him tears of love and gratitude for the blessing which
he felt stealing into his own mind. "Reuben," cried he, "my child
Reuben! There have been but two human beings in the world on whom I
have bestowed my love; for, like you, I lost my parents young. These
two were--her I lost and yourself!"
"If I thought you _loved_ me, I would die for you!" cried Reuben,
springing up and gazing earnestly on Theodore's face.
"My God!" murmured Theodore, "may I be able to feel this to Thee!"
* * * * *
I think more words are unnecessary. You cannot doubt that Theodore
soon convinced Reuben of his love, nor that Theodore took the lesson
to himself, and now saw that God had placed in the human heart a
witness of the possibility of His love to man. Yes, the clinging
affection we feel for those we have been kind to; our own power of
forgiving _any_ thing to them; is an instinct which has been
mercifully implanted in our hearts to teach us to believe in that Love
of God, which is otherwise so incredible to human reason.
If you care to know what became of Theodore and Reuben, you must in
fancy pass over a few years. Reuben soon had so strong a wish to go to
sea, that he entered the merchant service; and by the time he became
Master of his own vessel and revisited the hall when he came ashore,
Theodore was to be found there with a kind and gentle wife by his
side; and frolicking about the ancient hall were a parcel of noisy
children, to whom the arrival from sea of him whom they always
unaccountably would call "Uncle Reuben," was ever a gala treat. Dear
readers, Farewell!
BENEDICITE.