University of Virginia Library

51. CHAPTER LI.
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 of 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.

Red bud 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 had 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 Cæsar 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.