Rose O'Paradise. Grace Miller White
livin’, God sent his Christ for everybody; that in the lovin’ father”—Lafe raised his 65 eyes—“there’s no line drawed ’tween Jews an’ Gentiles. They’re all alike to Him. Only some’re goin’ one road an’ some another to get to Him, that’s all.”
These were quite new ideas to Virginia. In all her young life no one had ever conversed with her of such things. True, from her hill home on clear Sunday mornings she could hear the church bells ding-dong their hoarse welcome to the farmers, but she had never been inside the church doors. Now she regretted the lost opportunity. She wished to grasp the cobbler’s meaning. Noting her tense expression, Grandoken continued:
“It was only a misunderstandin’ ’tween a few Jews when they nailed the Christ to the cross. Why, a lot of Israelites back there believed in ’im. I’m one of them believin’ Jews, Jinnie.”
“I wish I was a Jew, cobbler,” sighed Jinnie. “I’d think the same as you then, wouldn’t I?”
“Oh, you don’t have to be a Jew to believe,” returned Lafe. “It’s as easy to do as ’tis to roll off’n a log.”
This lame man filled her young heart with a deep longing to help him and to have him help her.
“You’re going to teach me all about it, ain’t you, Lafe?” she entreated presently.
“Sure! Sure! You see, it’s this way: Common, everyday folks—them with narrer minds—ain’t much use for my kind of Jews. I’m livin’ here in a mess of ’em. Most of ’em’s shortwood gatherers. When I found out about the man on the cross, I told it right out loud to ’em all. … You’re one of ’em. You’re a Gentile, Jinnie.”
“I’m sorry,” said the girl sadly.
“Oh, you needn’t be. Peg’s one, too, but she’s got God’s mark on her soul as big as any of them women belongin’ to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob––I ain’t sure but it’s a mite bigger.” 66
The speaker worked a while, bringing the nails from his lips in rapid, even succession. Peg was the one bright spot that shone out of his wonderful yesterdays. She was the one link that fastened him securely to a useful to-morrow.
Virginia counted the nails mechanically as they were driven into the leather, and as the last one disappeared, she said:
“Are you always happy, Lafe, when you’re smiling? Why, you smile—when—even when—” she stammered, caught her breath, and finished, “even when Mrs. Peggy barks.”
An amused laugh came from the cobbler’s lips.
“That’s ’cause I know her, lass,” said he. “Why, when I first found out about the good God takin’ charge of Jews an’ Gentiles alike, I told it to Peg, an’, my, how she did hop up an’ down, right in the middle of the floor. She said I was meddlin’ into things that had took men of brains a million years to fix up.
“But I knew it as well as anything,” he continued. “God’s love is right in your heart, right there––” He bent over and gently touched the girl.
She looked up surprised.
“I heard He was setting on a great high throne up in Heaven,” she whispered, glancing up, “and he scowled dead mad when folks were wicked.”
Lafe smiled, shook his head, and picked up his hammer.
“No,” said he. “No, no! He’s right around me, an’ He’s right around you, an’ everything a feller does or has comes from Him.”
Virginia’s thoughts went back to an episode of the country.
“Does He help a kid knock hell out of another kid when that kid is beating a littler kid?” 67
Her eyes were so earnest, so deep in question, that the cobbler lowered his head. Not for the world would he have smiled at Virginia’s original question. He scarcely knew how to answer, but presently said:
“Well, I guess it’s all right to help them who ain’t as big as yourself, but it ain’t the best thing in the world to gad any one.”
“Oh, I never licked any of ’em,” Jinnie assured him. “I just wanted to find out, that’s all.”
“What’d you do when other kids beat the littler ones?” demanded the cobbler.
“Just shoved ’em down on the ground and set on ’em, damn ’em!” answered Jinnie.
Lafe raised his eyes slowly.
“I was wonderin’ if I dared give you a lesson, lass,” he began in a low voice.
“I wish you would,” replied Virginia, eagerly. “I’d love anything you’d tell me.”
“Well, I was wonderin’ if you knew it was wicked to swear?”
Like a shot came a pang through her breast. She had offended her friend.
“Wicked? Wicked?” she gasped. “You say it’s wicked to swear, cobbler?”
Lafe nodded. “Sure, awful wicked,” he affirmed.
Virginia took a long breath.
“I didn’t know it,” she murmured. “Father said it wasn’t polite, but that’s nothing. How is it wicked, cobbler?”
Lafe put two nails into position in the leather sole and drove them deep; then he laid down the hammer again.
“You remember my tellin’ you this morning of the man with angels, white angels, hoverin’ about the earth helpin’ folks?” 68
“Yes,” answered Virginia.
“Well, He said it was wicked.”
An awe-stricken glance fell upon the speaker.
“Did He tell you so, Lafe?”
“Yes,” said Lafe. “It ain’t a question of politeness at all, but just bein’ downright wicked. See, kid?”
“Yes, cobbler, I do now,” Jinnie answered, hanging her head. “Nobody but Matty ever told me nothing before. I guess she didn’t know much about angels, though.”
“Well,” continued Lafe, going back to his story, “God give his little boy Jesus to a mighty good man an’ a fine woman—as fine as Peg—to bring up. An’ Joseph trundled the little feller about just as I did my little Lafe, an’ bye-an’-bye when the boy grew, He worked as his Father in Heaven wanted him to. The good God helped Joseph an’ Mary to bring the Christ down face to face with us—Jews an’ Gentiles alike.”
“With you and me?” breathed Virginia, solemnly.
“With you an’ me, child,” repeated the cobbler in subdued tones.
Virginia walked to the window and drummed on the pane. Through mere force of habit the cobbler bent his head and caught the tacks between his teeth. He did it mechanically; he was thinking of the future. In the plan of events which Lafe had worked out for himself and Peg, there was but one helper, and each day some new demonstration came to make his faith the brighter. In the midst of his meditation, Jinnie returned to her seat.
“Cobbler, will you do something I ask you?”
“Sure,” assented Lafe.
“Get busy trusting Peg’ll get the two dollars to-night.”
“I have long ago, child, an’ she’s goin’ to get it, too. That’s one blessin’ about believin’. No one nor nobody can keep you from gettin’ what’s your own.” 69
“Mrs. Peggy doesn’t think that way,” remarked Virginia, with keen memories of Mrs. Grandoken’s snapping teeth.
“No, not yet, but I’m trustin’ she will.