Part 21 (1/2)
Araminta turned toward him obediently, but she was still sobbing.
”It is a world of mystery,” he went on. ”We do not know why we come nor where we go--we only know that we come and that eventually, we go.
Yet I do not think that any one of us nor any number of us have the right to say what the rest of us shall believe.
”I cannot think of Heaven as a place spa.r.s.ely populated by my own sect, with a world of sinners languis.h.i.+ng in flames below. I think of Heaven as a sunny field, where clover blooms and birds sing all day. There are trees, with long, cool shadows where the weary may rest; there is a crystal stream where they may forget their thirst. I do not think of Heaven as a place of judgment, but rather of pardon and love.
”Punishment there is, undoubtedly, but it has seemed to me that we are sufficiently punished here for all we do that is wrong. We don't intend to do wrong, Araminta--we get tired, and things and people worry us, and we are unjust. We are like children afraid in the dark; we live in a world of doubting, we are made the slaves of our own fears, and so we s.h.i.+rk.”
”But the burning,” said Araminta, wiping her eyes. ”Is n.o.body ever to be burned?”
”The G.o.d I wors.h.i.+p,” answered Thorpe, pa.s.sionately, ”never could be cruel, but there are many G.o.ds, it seems, and many strange beliefs.
Listen, Araminta. Whom do you love most?”
”Aunt Hitty?” she questioned.
”No, you don't have to say that if it isn't so. You can be honest with me. Who, of all the world, is nearest to you? Whom would you choose to be with you always, if you could have only one?”
”Doctor Ralph!” cried Araminta, her eyes s.h.i.+ning.
”I thought so,” replied Thorpe. ”I don't know that I blame you. Now suppose Doctor Ralph did things that hurt you; that there was continual misunderstanding and distrust. Suppose he wronged you, cruelly, and apparently did everything he could to distress you and make you miserable. Could you condemn him to a lake of fire?”
”Why, no!” she cried. ”I'd know he never meant to do it!”
”Suppose you knew he meant it?” persisted Thorpe, looking at her keenly.
”Then,” said Araminta, tenderly, ”I'd feel very, very sorry.”
”Exactly, and why? Because, as you say, you love him. And G.o.d is love, Araminta. Do you understand?”
Upon the cramped and imprisoned soul of the child, the light slowly dawned. ”G.o.d is love,” she repeated, ”and n.o.body would burn people they loved.”
There was an illuminating silence, then Thorpe spoke again. He told Araminta of a love so vast and deep that it could not be measured by finite standards; of infinite pity and infinite pardon. This love was everywhere; it was impossible to conceive of a place where it was not--it enveloped not only the whole world, but all the s.h.i.+ning worlds beyond. And this love, in itself and of itself, was G.o.d.
”This,” said Araminta, touching the book timidly; ”is it bad?”
”Nothing is bad,” explained Thorpe, carefully, ”which does not harm you or some one else. Of the two, it is better to harm yourself than another. How does the book make you feel?”
”It makes me feel as if the world was a beautiful place, and as if I ought to be better, so I could make it still more beautiful by living in it.”
”Then, Araminta, it is a good book.”
Thorpe went down-stairs strangely uplifted. To him, Truth was not a creed, but a light which illumined all creeds. His soul was aflame with eagerness to help and comfort the whole world. Miss Evelina was waiting in the hall, veiled and silent, as always.
She opened the door, but Thorpe lingered, striving vainly for the right word. He could not find it, but he had to speak.
”Miss Evelina,” he stammered, the high colour mounting to his temples, ”if there should ever be anything I can do for you, will you let me know?”
She seemed to shrink back into her veil. ”Yes,” she said, at length, ”I will.” Then, fearing she had been ungracious, she added: ”Thank you.”