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All\'s For the Best

T >> T. S. Arthur >> All\'s For the Best



CONTENTS.





I. FAITH AND PATIENCE.
II. IS HE A CHRISTIAN?
III. "RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE."
IV. NOT AS A CHILD.
V. ANGELS IN THE HEART.
VI. CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED.
VII. GOOD GROUND.
VIII. GIVING THAT DOTH NOT IMPOVERISH.
IX. WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE?
X. THE NURSERY MAID.
XI. MY FATHER.
XII. THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN.






ALL'S FOR THE BEST.

I.

FAITH AND PATIENCE.





"_I HAVE_ no faith in anything," said a poor doubter, who had
trusted in human prudence, and been disappointed; who had endeavored
to walk by the lumine of self-derived intelligence, instead of by
the light of divine truth, and so lost his way in the world. He was
fifty years old! What a sad confession for a man thus far on the
journey of life. "No faith in anything."

"You have faith in God, Mr. Fanshaw," replied the gentleman to whom
the remark was made.

"In God? I don't know him." And Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, in a
bewildered sort of way. There was no levity in his manner. "People
talk a great deal about God, and their knowledge of him," he added,
but not irreverently. "I think there is often more of pious cant in
all this than of living experience. You speak about faith in God.
What is the ground of your faith?"

"We have internal sight, as well as external sight."

There was no response to this in Mr. Fanshaw's face.

"We can see with the mind, as well as with the eyes."

"How?"

"An architect sees the building, in all its fine proportions, with
the eyes of his mind, before it exists in space visible to his
bodily eyes."

"Oh! that is your meaning, friend Wilkins," said Mr. Fanshaw, his
countenance brightening a little.

"In part," was replied. "That he can see the building in his mind,
establishes the fact of internal sight."

"Admitted; and what then?"

"Admitted, and we pass into a new world--the world of spirit."

Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and closed his lips tightly.

"I don't believe in spirits," he answered.

"You believe in your own spirit."

"I don't know that I have any spirit."

"You think and feel in a region distinct from the body," said Mr.
Wilkins.

"I can't say as to that."

"You can think of justice, of equity, of liberty?"

"Yes."

"As abstract rights; as things essential, and out of the region of
simple matter. The body doesn't think; it is the soul."

"Very well. For argument's sake, let all this be granted. I don't
wish to cavil. I am in no mood for that. And now, as to the ground
of your faith in God."

"Convictions," answered Mr. Wilkins, "are real things to a man.
Impressions are one thing; convictions another. The first are like
images on a glass; the others like figures in a textile fabric. The
first are made in an instant of time, and often pass as quickly; the
latter are slowly wrought in the loom of life, through daily
experience and careful thought. Herein lies the ground of my faith
in God;--it is an inwrought conviction. First I had the child's
sweet faith transfused into my soul with a mother's love, and
unshadowed by a single doubt. Then, on growing older, as I read the
Bible, which I believe to be God's word, I saw that its precepts
were divine, and so the child's faith was succeeded by rational
sight. Afterwards, as I floated off into the world, and met with
storms that wrecked my fondest hopes; with baffling winds and
adverse currents; with perils and disappointments, faith wavered
sometimes; and sometimes, when the skies were dark and threatening,
my mind gave way to doubts. But, always after the storm passed, and
the sun came out again, have I found my vessel unharmed, with a
freight ready for shipment of value far beyond what I had lost. I
have thrown over, in stress of weather, to save myself from being
engulfed, things that I had held to be very precious--thrown them
over, weeping. But, after awhile, things more precious took their
place--goodly pearls, found in a farther voyage, which, but for my
loss, would not have been ventured.

"Always am I seeing the hand of Providence--always proving the
divine announcement, 'The very hairs of your head are numbered.' Is
there not ground for faith here? If the word of God stand in
agreement with reason and experience, shall I not have faith? If my
convictions are clear, to disbelieve is impossible."

"We started differently," replied Mr. Fanshaw, almost mournfully.
"That sweet faith of childhood, to which you have referred, was
never mine."

"The faith of manhood is stronger, because it rests on reason and
experience," said Mr. Wilkins.

"With me, reason and experience give no faith in God, and no hope in
the future. All before me is dark."

"Simply, because you do not use your reason aright, nor read your
experiences correctly. If you were to do this, light would fall upon
your way. You said, a little while ago, that you had no faith in
anything. You spoke without due reflection."

"No; I meant just what I said. Is there stability in anything? In
what can I trust to-morrow? simply in nothing. My house may be in
ruins--burnt to the ground, at daylight. The friend to whom I loaned
my money to-day, to help him in his need, may fail me to-morrow, in
my need. The bank in which I hold stock may break--the ship in which
I have an adventure, go down at sea. But why enumerate? I am sure of
nothing."

"Not even of the love of your child?"

A warm flush came into the face of Mr. Fanshaw. He had one daughter
twelve years old.

"Dear Alice!" he murmured, in a softer voice. "Yes, I am sure of
that. There is no room for doubt. She loves me."

"One thing in which to have faith," said Mr. Wilkins. "Not in a
house which cannot be made wholly safe from fire; nor in a bank,
which may fail; nor in a friend's promise; nor in a ship at sea--but
in love! Are you afraid to have that love tried? If you were sick or
in misfortune, would it grow dim, or perish? Nay, would it not be
intensified?

"I think, Mr. Fanshaw," continued his friend, "that you have not
tested your faith by higher and better things--by things real and
substantial."

"What is more real than a house, or a ship, or a bill of exchange?"
asked Mr. Fanshaw.

"Imperishable love--incorruptible integrity--unflinching honor," was
replied.

"Do these exist?" Mr. Fanshaw looked incredulous.

"We know that they exist. You know that they exist. History,
observation, experience, reason, all come to the proof. We doubt but
in the face of conviction. Are these not higher and nobler things
than wealth, or worldly honors; than place or power? And is he not
serenest and happiest whose life rests on these as a house upon its
foundations? You cannot shake such a man. You cannot throw him down.
Wealth may go, and friends drop away like withering autumn leaves,
but he stands fast, with the light of heaven upon his brow. He has
faith in virtue--he has trust in God--he knows that all will come
out right in the end, and that he will be a wiser and better man for
the trial that tested his principles--for the storms that toughened,
but did not break the fibres of his soul."

"You lift me into a new region of thought," said Mr. Fanshaw, "A dim
light is breaking into my mind. I see things in a relation not
perceived before."

"Will you call with me on an old friend?" asked Mr. Wilkins.

"Who?"

"A poor man. Once rich."

"He might feel my visit as an intrusion."

"No."

"What reduced him to poverty?"

"A friend, in whom he put unlimited faith, deceived and ruined him."

"Ah!"

"And he has never been able to recover himself."

"What is his state of mind?"

"You shall judge for yourself."

In poor lodgings they found a man far past the prime of life. He was
in feeble health, and for over two months had not been able to go
out and attend to business. His wife was dead, and his children
absent. Of all this Mr. Fanshaw had been told on the way. His
surprise was real, when he saw, instead of a sad-looking,
disappointed and suffering person, a cheerful old man, whose face
warmed up on their entrance, as if sunshine were melting over it.
Conversation turned in the direction Mr. Wilkins desired it to take,
and the question soon came, naturally, from Mr. Fanshaw--

"And pray, sir, how were you sustained amid these losses, and
trials, and sorrows?"

"Through faith and patience," was the smiling answer. "Faith in God
and the right, and patience to wait."

"But all has gone wrong with you, and kept wrong. The friend who
robbed you of an estate holds and enjoys it still; while you are in
poverty. He is eating your children's bread."

"Do you envy his enjoyment?" asked the old man.

Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and answered with an emphasis--"No!"

"I am happier than he is," said the old man. "And as for his eating
my children's bread, that is a mistake. His bread is bitter, but
theirs is sweet." He reached for a letter that lay on a table near
him, and opening it, said--"This is from my son in the West. He
writes:--'Dear Father--All is going well with me. I enclose you
fifty dollars. In a month I am to be married, and it is all arranged
that dear Alice and I shall go East just to see you, and take you
back home with us. How nice and comfortable we will make you! And
you shall never leave us!'"

The old man's voice broke down on the last sentence, and his eyes
filled with tears. But he soon recovered himself, saying--

"Before I lost my property, this son was an idler, and in such
danger that through fear of his being led astray, I was often in
great distress of mind. Necessity forced him into useful employment;
and you see the result. I lost some money, but saved my son. Am I
not richer in such love as he bears me to-day, than if, without his
love, I possessed a million of dollars? Am I not happier? I knew it
would all come out right. I had faith, and I tried to be patient. It
is coming out right."

"But the wrong that has been done," said Mr. Fanshaw. "The injustice
that exists. Here is a scoundrel, a robber, in the peaceful
enjoyment of your goods, while you are in want."

"We do not envy such peace as his. The robber has no peace. He never
dwells in security; but is always armed, and on the watch. As for
me, it has so turned out that I have never lacked for food and
raiment."

"Still, there is the abstract wrong, the evil triumphing over the
good," said Mr. Fanshaw.

"How do you reconcile that with your faith in Providence?"

"What I see clearly, as to myself," was replied, "fully justifies
the ways of God to man. Am I the gainer or the loser by misfortune?
Clearly the gainer. That point admits of no argument. So, what came
to me in the guise of evil, I find to be good. God has not mocked my
faith in him. I waited patiently until he revealed himself in tender
mercy; until the hand to which I clung in the dark valley led me up
to the sunny hills. No amount of worldly riches could give me the
deep satisfaction I now possess. As for the false friend who robbed
me, I leave him in the hands of the all-wise Disposer of events. He
will not find, in ill-gotten gain, a blessing. It will not make his
bed soft; nor his food sweet to the taste. A just and righteous God
will trouble his peace, and make another's possessions the burden of
his life."

"But that will not benefit you," said Mr. Fanshaw. "His suffering
will not make good your loss."

"My loss is made good already. I have no complaint against
Providence. My compensation is a hundredfold. For dross I have gold.
I and mine needed the discipline of misfortune, and it came through
the perfidy of a friend. That false friend, selfish and
grasping--seeing in money the greatest good--was permitted to
consummate his evil design. That his evil will punish him, I am
sure; and in the pain of his punishment, he may be led to
reformation. If he continue to hide the stolen fox, it will tear his
vitals. If he lets it go, he will scarcely venture upon a second
theft. In either event, the wrong he was permitted to do will be
turned into discipline; and my hardest wish in regard to him is,
that the discipline may lead to repentance and a better life."

"Your faith and patience," said Mr. Fanshaw, as he held the old
man's hand in parting, "rebuke my restless disbelief. I thank you
for having opened to my mind a new region of thought--for having
made some things clear that have always been dark. I am sure that
our meeting to-day is not a simple accident. I have been led here,
and for a good purpose."

As Mr. Fanshaw and Mr. Wilkins left the poor man's lodgings, the
former said--

"I know the false wretch who ruined your friend."

"Ah!"

"Yes. And he is a miserable man. The fox is indeed tearing his
vitals. I understand his case now. He must make restitution. I know
how to approach him. This good, patient, trusting old man shall not
suffer wrong to the end."

"Does not all this open a new world of thought to your mind?" asked
Mr Wilkins. "Does it not show you that, amid all human wrong and
disaster, the hand of Providence moves in wise adjustment, and ever
out of evil educes good, ever through loss in some lower degree of
life brings gain to a higher degree? Consider how, in an
unpremeditated way, you are brought into contact with a stranger,
and how his life and experience touching yours, give out a spark
that lights a candle in your soul to illumine chambers where
scarcely a ray had shone before; and this not alone for your
benefit. It seems as if you were to be made an instrument of good
not only to the wronged, but to the wronger. If you can effect
restitution in any degree, the benefit will be mutual."

"I can and I will effect it," replied Mr. Fanshaw. And he did!






II.

IS HE A CHRISTIAN?





"_IS_ he a Christian?"

The question reached my ear as I sat conversing with a friend, and I
paused in the sentence I was uttering, to note the answer.

"Oh, yes; he is a Christian," was replied.

"I am rejoiced to hear you say so. I was not aware of it before,"
said the other.

"Yes; he has passed from death unto life. Last week, in the joy of
his new birth, he united himself to the church, and is now in
fellowship with the saints."

"What a blessed change!"

"Blessed, indeed. Another soul saved; another added to the great
company of those who have washed their robes, and made them white in
the blood of the Lamb. There is joy in heaven on his account."

"Of whom are they speaking?" I asked, turning to my friend.

"Of Fletcher Gray, I believe," was replied.

"Few men stood more in need of Christian graces," said I. "If he is,
indeed, numbered with the saints, there is cause for rejoicing."

"By their fruits ye shall know them," responded my friend. "I will
believe his claim to the title of Christian, when I see the fruit in
good living. If he have truly passed from death unto life, as they
say, he will work the works of righteousness. A sweet fountain will
not send forth bitter waters."

My friend but expressed my own sentiments in this, and all like
cases. I have learned to put small trust in "profession;" to look
past the Sunday and prayer-meeting piety of people, and to estimate
religious quality by the standard of the Apostle James. There must
be genuine love of the neighbor, before there can be a love of God;
for neighborly love is the ground in which that higher and purer
love takes root. It is all in vain to talk of love as a mere ideal
thing. Love is an active principle, and, according to its quality,
works. If the love be heavenly, it will show itself in good deeds to
the neighbor; but, if infernal, in acts of selfishness that
disregard the neighbor.

"I will observe this Mr. Gray," said I, as I walked homeward from
the company, "and see whether the report touching him be true. If he
is, indeed, a 'Christian,' as they affirm, the Christian graces of
meekness and charity will blossom in his life, and make all the air
around him fragrant."

Opportunity soon came. Fletcher Gray was a store-keeper, and his
life in the world was, consequently, open to the observation of all
men. He was likewise a husband and a father. His relations were,
therefore, of a character to give, daily, a test of his true
quality.

It was only the day after, that I happened to meet Mr. Gray under
circumstances favorable to observation. He came into the store of a
merchant with whom I was transacting some business, and asked the
price of certain goods in the market. I moved aside, and watched him
narrowly. There was a marked change in the expression of his
countenance and in the tones of his voice. The former had a sober,
almost solemn expression; the latter was subdued, even to
plaintiveness. But, in a little while, these peculiarities gradually
disappeared, and the aforetime Mr. Gray stood there
unchanged--unchanged, not only in appearance, but in character.
There was nothing of the "yea, yea," and "nay, nay," spirit in his
bargain-making, but an eager, wordy effort to gain an advantage in
trade. I noticed that, in the face of an asservation that only five
per cent. over cost was asked for a certain article, he still
endeavored to procure it at a lower figure than was named by the
seller, and finally crowded him down to the exact cost, knowing as
he did, that the merchant had a large stock on hand, and could not
well afford to hold it over.

"He's a sharper!" said the merchant, turning towards me as Gray left
the store.

"He's a Christian, they say," was my quiet remark.

"A Christian!"

"Yes; don't you know that he has become religious, and joined the
church?"

"You're joking!"

"Not a word of it. Didn't you observe his subdued, meek aspect, when
he came in?"

"Why, yes; now that you refer to it, I do remember a certain
peculiarity about him. Become pious! Joined the church! Well, I'm
sorry!"

"For what?"

"Sorry for the injury he will do to a good cause. The religion that
makes a man a better husband, father, man of business, lawyer,
doctor, or preacher, I reverence, for it is genuine, as the lives of
those who accept it do testify. But your hypocritical pretenders I
scorn and execrate."

"It is, perhaps, almost too strong language, this, as applied to Mr.
Gray," said I.

"What is a hypocrite?" asked the merchant.

"A man who puts on the semblance of Christian virtues which he does
not possess."

"And that is what Mr. Gray does when he assumes to be religious. A
true Christian is just. Was he just to me when he crowded me down in
the price of my goods, and robbed me of a living profit, in order
that he might secure a double gain? I think not. There is not even
the live and let live principle in that. No--no, sir. If he has
joined the church, my word for it, there is a black sheep in the
fold; or, I might say, without abuse of language, a wolf therein
disguised in sheep's clothing."

"Give the man time," said I. "Old habits of life are strong, you
know. In a little while, I trust that he will see clearer, and
regulate his life from perceptions of higher truths."

"I thought his heart was changed," answered the merchant, with some
irony in his tones. "That he had been made a new creature."

I did not care to discuss that point with him, and so merely
answered,

"The beginnings of spiritual life are as the beginnings of natural
life. The babe is born in feebleness, and we must wait through the
periods of infancy, childhood and youth, before we can have the
strong man ready for the burden and heat of the day, or full-armed
for the battle. If Mr. Gray is in the first effort to lead a
Christian life, that is something. He will grow wiser and better in
time, I hope."

"There is vast room for improvement," said the merchant. "In my eyes
he is, at this time, only a hypocritical pretender. I hope, for the
sake of the world and the church both, that his new associates will
make something better out of him."

I went away, pretty much of the merchant's opinion. My next meeting
with Mr. Gray was in the shop of a mechanic to whom he had sold a
bill of goods some months previously. He had called to collect a
portion of the amount which remained unpaid. The mechanic was not
ready for him.

"I am sorry, Mr. Gray" he began, with some hesitation of manner.

"Sorry for what?" sharply interrupted Mr. Gray.

"Sorry that I have not the money to settle your bill. I have been
disappointed----"

"I don't want that old story. You promised to be ready for me
to-day, didn't you?" And Mr. Gray knit his brows, and looked angry
and imperative.

"Yes, I promised. But----"

"Then keep your promise. No man has a right to break his word.
Promises are sacred things, and should be kept religiously."

"If my customers had kept their promises to me there would have been
no failure in mine to you," answered the poor mechanic.

"It is of no use to plead other men's failings in justification of
your own. You said the bill should be settled to-day, and I
calculated upon it. Now, of all things in the world, I hate
trifling. I shall not call again, sir!"

"If you were to call forty times, and I hadn't the money to settle
your account, you would call in vain," said the mechanic, showing
considerable disturbance of mind.

"You needn't add insult to wrong." Mr. Gray's countenance reddened,
and he looked angry.

"If there is insult in the case it is on your part, not mine,"
retorted the mechanic, with more feeling. "I am not a digger of gold
out of the earth, nor a coiner of money. I must be paid for my work
before I can pay the bills I owe. It was not enough that I told you
of the failure of my customers to meet their engagements----"

"You've no business to have such customers," broke in Mr. Gray. "No
right to take my goods and sell them to men who are not honest
enough to pay their bills."

"One of them is your own son," replied the mechanic, goaded beyond
endurance. "His bill is equal to half of yours. I have sent for the
amount a great many times, but still he puts me off with excuses. I
will send it to you next time."

This was thrusting home with a sharp sword, and the vanquished Mr.
Gray retreated from the battle-field, bearing a painful wound.

"That wasn't right in me, I know," said the mechanic, as Gray left
his shop. "I'm sorry, now, that I said it. But he pressed me too
closely. I am but human."

"He is a hard, exacting, money-loving man," was my remark.

"They tell me he has become a Christian," said the mechanic. "Has
got religion--been converted. Is that so?"

"It is commonly reported; but I think common report must be in
error. St. Paul gives patience, forbearance, long-suffering,
meekness, brotherly kindness, and charity as some of the Christian
graces. I do not see them in this man. Therefore, common report must
be in error."

"I have paid him a good many hundreds of dollars since I opened my
shop here," said the mechanic, with the manner of one who felt hurt.
"If I am a poor, hard-working man, I try to be honest. Sometimes I
get a little behind hand, as I am new, because people I work for
don't pay up as they should. It happened twice before when I wasn't
just square with Mr. Gray, and he pressed down very hard upon me,
and talked just as you heard him to-day. He got his money, every
dollar of it; and he will get his money now. I did think, knowing
that he had joined the church and made a profession of religion,
that he would bear a little patiently with me this time. That, as he
had obtained forgiveness, as alleged, of his sins towards heaven, he
would be merciful to his fellow-man. Ah, well! These things make us
very sceptical about the honesty of men who call themselves
religious. My experience with 'professors' has not been very
encouraging. As a general thing I find them quite as greedy for gain
as other men. We outside people of the world get to be very
sharp-sighted. When a man sets himself up to be of better quality
than we, and calls himself by a name significant of heavenly virtue,
we judge him, naturally, by his own standard, and watch him very
closely. If he remain as hard, as selfish, as exacting, and as eager
after money as before, we do not put much faith in his profession,
and are very apt to class him with hypocrites. His praying, and fine
talk about faith, and heavenly love, and being washed from all sin,
excite in us contempt rather than respect. We ask for good works,
and are never satisfied with anything else. By their fruits ye shall
know them."

On the next Sunday I saw Mr. Gray in church. My eyes were on him
when he entered. I noticed that all the lines of his face were drawn
down, and that the whole aspect and bearing of the man were solemn
and devotional. He moved to his place with a slow step, his eyes
cast to the floor. On taking his seat, he leaned his head on the pew
in front of him, and continued for nearly a minute in prayer. During
the services I heard his voice in the singing; and through the
sermon, he maintained the most fixed attention. It was communion
Sabbath; and he remained, after the congregation was dismissed, to
join in the holiest act of worship.

"Can this man be indeed self-deceived?" I asked myself, as I walked
homeward. "Can he really believe that heaven is to be gained by
pious acts alone? That every Sabbath evening he can pitch his tent a
day's march nearer heaven, though all the week he have failed in the
commonest offices of neighborly love?"

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