“If Mas’r pleases,” said Tom, “Miss
Eva used to read this so beautifully. I wish
Mas’r’d be so good as read it. Don’t
get no readin’, hardly, now Miss Eva’s
gone.”
The chapter was the eleventh of John,—the
touching account of the raising of Lazarus, St. Clare
read it aloud, often pausing to wrestle down feelings
which were roused by the pathos of the story.
Tom knelt before him, with clasped hands, and with
an absorbed expression of love, trust, adoration,
on his quiet face.
“Tom,” said his Master, “this is
all real to you!”
“I can jest fairly see it Mas’r,”
said Tom.
“I wish I had your eyes, Tom.”
“I wish, to the dear Lord, Mas’r had!”
“But, Tom, you know that I have a great deal
more knowledge than you; what if I should tell you
that I don’t believe this Bible?”
“O, Mas’r!” said Tom, holding up
his hands, with a deprecating gesture.
“Wouldn’t it shake your faith some, Tom?”
“Not a grain,” said Tom.
“Why, Tom, you must know I know the most.”
“O, Mas’r, haven’t you jest read
how he hides from the wise and prudent, and reveals
unto babes? But Mas’r wasn’t in earnest,
for sartin, now?” said Tom, anxiously.
“No, Tom, I was not. I don’t disbelieve,
and I think there is reason to believe; and still
I don’t. It’s a troublesome bad habit
I’ve got, Tom.”
“If Mas’r would only pray!”
“How do you know I don’t, Tom?”
“Does Mas’r?”
“I would, Tom, if there was anybody there when
I pray; but it’s all speaking unto nothing,
when I do. But come, Tom, you pray now, and show
me how.”
Tom’s heart was full; he poured it out In prayer,
like waters that have been long suppressed. One
thing was plain enough; Tom thought there was somebody
to hear, whether there were or not. In fact, St.
Clare felt himself borne, on the tide of his faith
and feeling, almost to the gates of that heaven he
seemed so vividly to conceive. It seemed to bring
him nearer to Eva.
“Thank you, my boy,” said St. Clare, when
Tom rose. “I like to hear you, Tom; but
go, now, and leave me alone; some other time, I’ll
talk more.”
Tom silently left the room.
Reunion
Week after week glided away in the St. Clare mansion,
and the waves of life settled back to their usual
flow, where that little bark had gone down. For
how imperiously, how coolly, in disregard of all one’s
feeling, does the hard, cold, uninteresting course
of daily realities move on! Still must we eat,
and drink, and sleep, and wake again,—still
bargain, buy, sell, ask and answer questions,—pursue,
in short, a thousand shadows, though all interest
in them be over; the cold mechanical habit of living
remaining, after all vital interest in it has fled.
All the interests and hopes of St. Clare’s life
had unconsciously wound themselves around this child.
It was for Eva that he had managed his property; it
was for Eva that he had planned the disposal of his
time; and, to do this and that for Eva,—to
buy, improve, alter, and arrange, or dispose something
for her,—had been so long his habit, that
now she was gone, there seemed nothing to be thought
of, and nothing to be done.
