Part 30 (2/2)

Dorothy would have hastened the lighter repairs inside the house as well, so as to get into it as soon as possible; but her father very wisely argued that it would be a pity to get the house in good condition, and then, as soon as they went into it, and began to find how it could be altered better to suit their tastes and necessities, have to destroy a great part of what had just been done. His plan, therefore, was to leave the house for the winter, now it was weather-tight, and with the first of the summer partly occupy it as it was, find out its faults and capabilities, and have it gradually repaired and altered to their minds and requirements. There would in this way be plenty of time to talk about every thing, even to the merest suggestion of fancy, and discover what they would really like.

But ever since the place had been theirs, Dorothy had been in the habit of going almost daily to the house, with her book and her work, sitting now in this, now in that empty room, undisturbed by the noises of the workmen, chiefly outside: the foreman was a member of her father's church, a devout man, and she knew every one of his people. She had taken a strange fancy to those empty rooms: perhaps she felt them like her own heart, waiting for something to come and fill them with life.

Nor was there any thing to prevent her, though the work was over for a time, from indulging herself in going there still, as often as she pleased, and she would remain there for hours, sometimes nearly the whole day. In her present condition of mind and heart, she desired and needed solitude: she was one of those who when troubled rush from their fellows, and, urged by the human instinct after the divine, seek refuge in loneliness--the cave on h.o.r.eb, the top of Mount Sinai, the closet with shut door--any lonely place where, unseen, and dreading no eye, the heart may call aloud to the G.o.d hidden behind the veil of the things that do appear.

How different, yet how fit to merge in a mutual sympathy, were the thoughts of the two, as they wandered about the place that evening!

Dorothy was thinking her commonest thought--how happy she could be if only she knew there was a Will central to the universe, willing all that came to her--good or seeming-bad--a Will whom she might love and thank for _all_ things. He would be to her no G.o.d whom she could thank only when He sent her what was pleasant. She must be able to thank Him for every thing, or she could thank Him for nothing.

Her father was saying to himself he could not have believed the lifting from his soul of such a gravestone of debt, would have made so little difference to his happiness. He fancied honest Jones, the butcher, had more mere pleasure from the silver snuff-box he had given him, than he had himself from his fortune. Relieved he certainly was, but the relief was not happiness. His debt had been the stone that blocked up the gate of Paradise: the stone was rolled away, but the gate was not therefore open. He seemed for the first time beginning to understand what he had so often said, and in public too, and had thought he understood, that G.o.d Himself, and not any or all of His gifts, is the life of a man. He had got rid of the dread imagination that G.o.d had given him the money in anger, as He had given the Israelites the quails, nor did he find that the possession formed any barrier between him and G.o.d: his danger, now seemed that of forgetting the love of the Giver in his anxiety to spend the gift according to His will.

”You and I ought to be very happy, my love,” he said, as now they were walking home.

He had often said so before, and Dorothy had held her peace; but now, with her eyes on the ground, she rejoined, in a low, rather broken voice,

”Why, papa?”

”Because we are lifted above the anxiety that was crus.h.i.+ng us into the very mud,” he answered, with surprise at her question.

”It never troubled me so much as all that,” she answered. ”It is a great relief to see you free from it, father; but otherwise, I can not say that it has made much difference to me.”

”My dear Dorothy,” said the minister, ”it is time we should understand each other. Your state of mind has for a long time troubled me; but while debt lay so heavy upon me, I could give my attention to nothing else. Why should there be any thing but perfect confidence between a father and daughter who belong to each other alone in all the world?

Tell me what it is that so plainly oppresses you. What prevents you from opening your heart to me? You can not doubt my love.”

”Never for one moment, father,” she answered, almost eagerly, pressing to her heart the arm on which she leaned. ”I know I am safe with you because I am yours, and yet somehow I can not get so close to you as I would. Something comes between us, and prevents me.”

”What is it, my child? I will do all and every thing I can to remove it.”

”You, dear father! I don't believe ever child had such a father.”

”Oh yes, my dear! many have had better fathers, but none better than I hope one day by the grace of G.o.d to be to you. I am a poor creature, Dorothy, but I love you as my own soul. You are the blessing of my days, and my thoughts brood over you in the night: it would be in utter content, if I only saw you happy. If your face were acquainted with smiles, my heart would be acquainted with gladness.”

For a time neither said any thing more. The silent tears were streaming from Dorothy's eyes. At length she spoke.

”I wonder if I could tell you what it is without hurting you, father!”

she said.

”I can hear any thing from you, my child,” he answered. ”Then I will try. But I do not think I shall ever quite know my father on earth, or be quite able to open my heart to him, until I have found my Father in Heaven.”

”Ah, my child! is it so with you? Do you fear you have not yet given yourself to the Saviour? Give yourself now. His arms are ever open to receive you.”

”That is hardly the point, father.--Will you let me ask you any question I please?”

”a.s.suredly, my child.” He always spoke, though quite unconsciously, with a little of the _ex-cathedral_ tone.

”Then tell me, father, are you just as sure of G.o.d as you are of me standing here before you?”

She had stopped and turned, and stood looking him full in the face with wide, troubled eyes.

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