Part 4 (2/2)
It was a wife's speech, reader. Forgive me for writing it.
”Well,” I said, ”I don't mind them coming in, but I don't promise to say anything directly to them. And you must let them go away the moment they wish it.”
”Certainly,” answered my wife; and so the matter was arranged.
CHAPTER IV.
A SUNDAY EVENING.
When I went in to see Constance the next Sunday morning before going to church, I knew by her face that she was expecting the evening. I took care to get into no conversation with her during the day, that she might be quite fresh. In the evening, when I went into her room again with my Bible in my hand, I found all our little company a.s.sembled. There was a glorious fire, for it was very cold, and the little ones were seated on the rug before it, one on each side of their mother; Wynnie sat by the further side of the bed, for she always avoided any place or thing she thought another might like; and Dora sat by the further chimney-corner, leaving the s.p.a.ce between the fire and my chair open that I might see and share the glow.
”The wind is very high, papa,” said Constance, as I seated myself beside her.
”Yes, my dear. It has been blowing all day, and since sundown it has blown harder. Do you like the wind, Connie?”
”I am afraid I do like it. When it roars like that in the chimneys, and shakes the windows with a great rush as if it _would_ get into the house and tear us to pieces, and then goes moaning away into the woods and grumbles about in them till it grows savage again, and rushes up at us with fresh fury, I am afraid I delight in it. I feel so safe in the very jaws of danger.”
”Why, you are quite poetic, Connie,” said Wynnie.
”Don't laugh at me, Wynnie. Mind I'm an invalid, and I can't bear to be laughed at,” returned Connie, half laughing herself, and a little more than a quarter crying.
Wynnie rose and kissed her, whispered something to her which made her laugh outright, and then sat down again.
”But tell me, Connie,” I said, ”why you are _afraid_ you enjoy hearing the wind about the house.”
”Because it must be so dreadful for those that are out in it.”
”Perhaps not quite so bad as we think. You must not suppose that G.o.d has forgotten them, or cares less for them than for you because they are out in the wind.”
”But if we thought like that, papa,” said Wynnie, ”shouldn't we come to feel that their sufferings were none of our business?”
”If our benevolence rests on the belief that G.o.d is less loving than we, it will come to a bad end somehow before long, Wynnie.”
”Of course, I could not think that,” she returned.
”Then your kindness would be such that you dared not, in G.o.d's name, think hopefully for those you could not help, lest you should, believing in his kindness, cease to help those whom you could help! Either G.o.d intended that there should be poverty and suffering, or he did not. If he did not intend it--for similar reasons to those for which he allows all sorts of evils--then there is nothing between but that we should sell everything that we have and give it away to the poor.”
”Then why don't we?” said Wynnie, looking truth itself in my face.
”Because that is not G.o.d's way, and we should do no end of harm by so doing. We should make so many more of those who will not help themselves who will not be set free from themselves by rising above themselves. We are not to gratify our own benevolence at the expense of its object--not to save our own souls as we fancy, by putting other souls into more danger than G.o.d meant for them.”
”It sounds hard doctrine from your lips, papa,” said Wynnie.
”Many things will look hard in so many words, which yet will be found kindness itself when they are interpreted by a higher theory. If the one thing is to let people have everything they want, then of course everyone ought to be rich. I have no doubt such a man as we were reading of in the papers the other day, who saw his servant girl drown without making the least effort to save her, and then bemoaned the loss of her labour for the coming harvest, thinking himself ill-used in her death, would hug his own selfishness on hearing my words, and say, 'All right, parson! Every man for himself! I made my own money, and they may make theirs!' _You_ know that is not exactly the way I should think or act with regard to my neighbour. But if it were only that I have seen such n.o.ble characters cast in the mould of poverty, I should be compelled to regard poverty as one of G.o.d's powers in the world for raising the children of the kingdom, and to believe that it was not because it could not be helped that our Lord said, 'The poor ye have always with you.'
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