Part 11 (1/2)
”I know it, my child. And you must not think I don't care because I think it better not to interfere. I am with you all the time.”
”Thank you, father; I know it. Well, when I was going to bed, I was angry with him still, so it was no wonder I found I could not say my prayers. Then I remembered how Jesus said we must forgive or we should not be forgiven. So I forgave him with all my heart, and kindly, too, and then I found I could pray.”
The father stretched out his arms and drew her to his bosom, murmuring, ”My child! my Christ's child!” After a little he began to talk again.
”It is a miserable thing to hear those who desire to believe themselves Christians, talking and talking about this question and that, the discussion of which is all for strife and nowise for unity--not a thought among them of the one command of Christ, to love one another. I fear some are hardly content with not hating those who differ from them.”
”I am sure, father, I try--and I think I do love everybody that loves him,” said Mary.
”Well, that is much--not enough though, my child. We must be like Jesus, and you know that it was while we were yet sinners that Christ died for us; therefore we must love all men, whether they are Christians or not.”
”Tell me, then, what you want me to do, father dear. I will do whatever you tell me.”
”I want you to be just like that to the Lord Christ, Mary. I want you to look out for his will, and find it, and do it. I want you not only to do it, though that is the main thing, when you think of it, but to look for it, that you may do it. I need not say to you that this is not a thing to be _talked_ about much, for you don't do that. You may think me very silent, my love; but I do not talk always when I am inclined, for the fear I might let my feeling out that way, instead of doing something he wants of me with it. And how repulsive and full of offense those generally are who talk most! Our strength ought to go into conduct, not into talk--least of all, into talk about what they call the doctrines of the gospel. The man who does what G.o.d tells him, sits at his Father's feet, and looks up in his Father's face; and men had better leave him alone, for he can not greatly mistake his Father, and certainly will not displease him. Look for the lovely will, my child, that you may be its servant, its priest, its sister, its queen, its slave--as Paul calls himself. How that man did glory in his Master!”
”I will try, father,” returned Mary, with a burst of tears. ”I do want to be good. I do want to be one of his slaves, if I may.”
”_May!_ my child? You are bound to be. You have no choice but choose it. It is what we are made for--freedom, the divine nature, G.o.d's life, a grand, pure, open-eyed existence! It is what Christ died for. You must not talk about _may;_ it is all _must._”
Mary had never heard her father talk like this, and, notwithstanding the endless interest of his words, it frightened her. An instinctive uneasiness crept up and laid hold of her. The unsealing hand of Death was opening the mouth of a dumb prophet.
A pause followed, and he spoke again.
”I will tell you one thing now that Jesus says: he is unchangeable; what he says once he says always; and I mention it now, because it may not be long before you are specially called to mind it. It is this: _'Let not your heart be troubled.'_”
”But he said that on one particular occasion, and to his disciples--did he not?” said Mary, willing, in her dread, to give the conversation a turn.
”Ah, Mary!” said her father, with a smile, ”_will_ you let the questioning spirit deafen you to the teaching one? Ask yourself, the first time you are alone, what the disciples were not to be troubled about, and why they were not to be troubled about it.--I am tired, and should like to go to bed.”
He rose, and stood for a moment in front of the fire, winding his old double-cased silver watch. Mary took from her side the little gold one he had given her, and, as was her custom, handed it to him to wind for her. The next moment he had dropped it on the fender.
”Ah, my child!” he cried, and, stooping, gathered up a dying thing, whose watchfulness was all over. The gla.s.s was broken; the case was open; it lay in his hand a mangled creature. Mary heard the rush of its departing life, as the wheels went whirring, and the hands circled rapidly.
They stopped motionless. She looked up in her father's face with a smile. He was looking concerned.
”I am very sorry, Mary,” he said; ”but, if it is past repair, I will get you another.--You don't seem to mind it much!” he added, and smiled himself.
”Why should I, father dear?” she replied. ”When one's father breaks one's watch, what is there to say but 'I am very glad it was you did it'? I shall like the little thing the better for it.”
He kissed her on the forehead.
”My child, say that to your Father in heaven, when he breaks something for you. He will do it from love, not from blundering. I don't often preach to you, my child--do I? but somehow it comes to me to-night.”
”I will remember, father,” said Mary; and she did remember.
She went with him to his bedroom, and saw that everything was right for him. When she went again, before going to her own, he felt more comfortable, he said, and expected to have a good night. Relieved, she left him; but her heart would be heavy. A shapeless sadness seemed pressing it down; it was being got ready for what it had to bear.
When she went to his room in the middle of the night, she found him slumbering peacefully, and went back to her own and slept better. When she went again in the morning, he lay white, motionless, and without a breath.
It was not in Mary's nature to give sudden vent to her feelings. For a time she was stunned. As if her life had rushed to overtake her departing parent, and beg a last embrace, she stood gazing motionless.
The sorrow was too huge for entrance. The thing could not be! Not until she stooped and kissed the pale face, did the stone in her bosom break, and yield a torrent of grief. But, although she had left her father in that very spot the night before, already she not only knew but felt that was not he which lay where she had left him. He was gone, and she was alone. She tried to pray, but her heart seemed to lie dead in her bosom, and no prayer would rise from it. It was the time of all times when, if ever, prayer must be the one reasonable thing--and pray she could not. In her dull stupor she did not hear Beenie's knock. The old woman entered, and found her on her knees, with her forehead on one of the dead hands, while the white face of her master lay looking up to heaven, as if praying for the living not yet privileged to die. Then first was the peace of death broken. Beenie gave a loud cry, and turned and ran, as if to warn the neighbors that Death was loose in the town.