Part 16 (1/2)

When she looked back, there were tears of distress in her eyes.

I felt a vague wonder and regret.

”No,” she said; ”I thought, once--I wanted--I hoped----”

”Why, child!” I hastened to exclaim. ”I didn't ask you because I had any reason to doubt that you were one--quite the contrary--but simply for this. It seems to me it would be such a desirable thing for you, situated as you are, here, with so few surroundings of a refining and elevating nature, if you could attach yourself, if it were merely for a feeling of fellows.h.i.+p and sympathy--for of course, you could not attend, often--to some simple Orthodox body of believers--like the Methodist church at West Wallen, for instance. It seems to me, that, in your case, believing simply and unquestionably, as I have no doubt you do, it would be a sort of a.s.surance, a sort of continual rest and support to you. It would be a great relief to me if I felt that you were so guarded. Not that I consider it essential at all; to some people, indeed, of a deeply thoughtful and inquisitive mind, such a course would appear impossible.

You have never troubled yourself, Becky,” I continued, in a tone of rea.s.suring lightness; ”you have never troubled yourself with doubts and speculations on religious subjects?”

”I don't know,” Becky replied, the look of perplexity and distress deepening in her eyes.

”Why should you?” I murmured, softly stroking her hair; ”He carries the lambs in His bosom.” I had been little in the habit of quoting Scripture--the words, coming to my mind, struck me as particularly Beautiful and applicable on this occasion. ”And so what I have suggested, would be the easiest and most natural thing in the world for you to do. I suppose it might be necessary for you to have come to some conclusion in regard to the first principles of Theology; but probably you have already satisfied yourself as to these in your own mind.”

Rebecca looked little like one who had arrived at the calm plane of philosophical conclusion of any sort.

”I don't know,” she gasped.

”Well, take the Trinity, for instance,” I continued, in a tone highly suggestive of calm and supreme forbearance with helpless ignorance.

”Probably you believe in the Trinity?”

”Oh, I don't know,” said Rebecca. ”I don't know what it means. n.o.body ever told me; n.o.body ever talked to me about those things before.”

”It's simply,” I said; ”a term implying the existence of three persons in the G.o.dhead. So the Trinitarians are distinguished from the Unitarians who believe that it consists of one. I'm not particularly informed as to the Methodist credentials of faith. You will always hear that they believe that salvation is free to all who will accept of it. Some people believe that man is a free agent, and may accept or refuse the means of grace, and if he refuses, is eternally lost. And then, again, there are the Universalists, who believe that all will be eventually saved. There is the Calvinistic element--those who believe in predestination--that is----”

Becky had laid her head down on the bed, and was quietly sobbing.

”My poor child,” I exclaimed, with swift compa.s.sion, ”don't think anything more about what I have said to you. Let it go. It isn't vital.”

”You don't hate me for not knowing anything?” sobbed Becky. ”n.o.body ever tried to have me understand, before.”

”You know enough; quite enough, dear!” I remarked hastily, producing from my trunk a quant.i.ty of ill.u.s.trated magazines. These we looked over together, and when Becky went away, the tears were dried in her eyes, and she was laughing as merrily as ever.

With the severely implied reproach of Madeline's words still in my mind, I took pains to a.s.sume toward Luther Larkin a more elder-sisterly air even than before.

It was true, I felt that I had been unjustly stung, having, amid the press of other duties, undertaken the advancement of that bright youth, from motives, I believed, of an ideal and disinterested nature. It was also true, that, after the first enthusiasm with respect to his lessons had pa.s.sed away, as well as the natural diffidence he had at first felt in my presence, Luther Larkin, though punctual to the hour of recitation, had gradually fallen into a habit of more lively and discursive inquiry than that furnished within the dull range of his text-books. He had a singularly fearless manner of challenging the inexplicable in thought and life, with a light conversational flow of much brilliancy. Moreover, he was a delightful dreamer.

We had our recitation, for quiet, in one of Grandma's gloomy and mysterious keepin'-rooms. The only object inviting to sedentary posture in this room was Grandpa's huge ”chist,” which occupied a position ”along side” the East window. Those sacred window curtains, of green paper, flowered with crimson roses, were never rolled up; but as the light strayed in at one side, and fell on the Cradlebow's fine head, often I reflected that under certain other conditions of life, meaning conditions more favorable to Luther Larkin, I might have regarded him very tenderly, and invested the strength and beauty of his young manhood with heroic meaning.

As it was, I a.s.sumed that I was years beyond him in the gravest respects.

And if there was any truth in what Madeline had intimated, possibly I had been at fault for not impressing this fact more deeply on his mind.

”So you are getting sadly behindhand with your lessons, Luther,” I said.

”I wish you would make a brave effort to catch up. There is no true attainment to be reached without a corresponding degree of effort--of perseverance.”

I spoke with a serious and gracious air, as though this sentiment, gleaned from a profound experience, had occurred to me as an idea peculiarly my own.

”Never mind the lessons!” replied my audacious pupil, brightly.

”Teacher,” he added presently, having fallen into a gently musing att.i.tude; ”how s.h.i.+ny those crimples in your hair look, with that streak of sun lighting on 'em!”