FOR a day or two subsequent to the conversation recorded in the last
chapter, the invalid was unable to leave his room. He seemed desirous of
being left alone. Henry was earnest in the hope that he was communing
with his own heart. When he again joined the family, it was with a paler
countenance, and yet there was an expression of peace resting upon it,
that led to the hope that he was beginning to contemplate without dread
the great change that was before him. He listened with attention as his
brother spoke of matters relating to the unseen world, and asked
questions which could be prompted only by an inquiring spirit. Still he
avoided any further expression of his feelings.
One evening, Horace Larned called to see Susan. She compelled him, as it
were, to spend half an hour in the society of her uncle, who scanned his
features with interest, and asked him a few courteous questions, and was
greatly pleased with the directness and manliness of his replies. When
Horace and Susan had withdrawn, he remarked to Henry--
"That young man is engaged to Susan?"
"He is."
"I like him. He appears well. I like him for his mother's sake. I wrote
to her, offering to assist him in his education, but the offer was
declined, and the money returned. Why was it? Does she retain a
prejudice against me?"
"I presume not. She is at peace with all mankind, and with her Maker.
The young man has a very independent, self-relying spirit. Probably he
dictated the letter you received."
"Was that before he was engaged to Susan?"
"When did you write her?"
"Immediately after my return to the city."
"They were not engaged then, at least not in form."
"As things now are, would he refuse to receive aid from me?"
"I do not know. Susan can probably tell."
"I must speak with her on the subject."
The next time he was left alone with Susan, he said--
"Susan, my dear daughter, for so I must call you, though you would not
give me leave to do so, I wish to do something for young Larned."
Susan made no reply, except by a crimson blush.
"Pardon me for speaking so abruptly. I have not a great while to stay
with you, and I must say what I have to say directly and without
preface."
"That is the way in which I would have every one speak to me," said
Susan.
"There is nothing which I can do for your welfare and happiness which I
do not desire to do. My property will soon be of no value to me, for I
shall shortly be in my grave. I wish to know if you cannot devise some
way by which I can assist young Larned in his education. Set your wits
to work, and, having succeeded, inform me. I am growing faint, and shall
require assistance to be enabled to reach my room."
Susan called her father, who was at hand, and, supported by them both,
the invalid succeeded in reaching his room. He then fainted quite away.
Susan was greatly alarmed, as she had never before seen one in a state
of temporary insensibility. So perfect an image of death could not be
witnessed for the first time without agitation and even terror. By a
prompt application of remedies, consciousness was soon restored. He was
feeble and dispirited, and Susan remained by his bedside. Unable or
disinclined to engage in conversation, he pointed to the Bible. She read
to him. He listened with interest, and when she paused would request her
to proceed. She read till the shadows of evening rendered it necessary
for her to lay aside the volume.
"There is much there," said he, "that I do not comprehend."
"Is there not much there that you can comprehend, and much that you can
believe, though it transcend your comprehension? Do you find any
difficulty in understanding this assertion, 'God so loved the world that
he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him might not
perish, but have everlasting life?'"
"I believe it. I do not doubt the truth of any declaration of the Bible;
but there is an air of unreality about the truths which prevents my
acting as I should, if I really felt them to be true. I find that, in
order to believe, one needs to have the heart of a little child. My
heart is soiled, and hardened, and chilled by the devotion of my life to
the world. I would that I could become a child again!"
"That very desire indicates that you are approaching the temper of mind
which will authorize you to rely on the Divine promises."
"Do you think so? Do not encourage me to hope unless you are sure you
are authorized to do so. Do you believe that one who has given himself
for a lifetime to the world, to the pursuit of that which he must leave
behind him when he enters another world--do you believe that one who has
been so unwise and so wicked can recover what he has wilfully, not to
say willingly, lost?"
"I do not think that one can, strictly speaking, recover what he has
lost. That is, he cannot be what he would have been, if he had rightly
employed his time and advantages. The hours that are passed can never be
recalled, nor the particular blessings of which they might have been
ministers. Still, provision is made for those who have pursued the
course you have described--provision whereby they may be made partakers
of the Divine mercy."
"But, in order that one may be a partaker of that mercy, he must have a
peculiar temper of mind. His heart must be delivered from the hardness
induced by a lifetime of neglect of duty. I am far from possessing that
temper."
"Your consciousness of want is a hopeful sign. Let me, my dear uncle,
presume to offer you advice. Do not strive to bring your mind into a
condition which you imagine will render you an appropriate object of the
Divine mercy, but go at once to your Heavenly Father and tell him all
your faults, and all your difficulties, and all your wants. A sense of
need is all the preparation that is necessary for our approach to him.
It was this sense of need that induced the prodigal to arise and go to
his father. The manner in which he was received teaches us in what
manner our Heavenly Father will receive us."
Richard Clifton listened to the words of that young girl with more
interest than he had ever listened to the report of the most successful
voyage. He was not in the least displeased at being compared to the
prodigal son. He determined at once to follow the advice so simply and
affectionately given. He closed his eyes and concentrated the energies
of his soul in mental prayer. The truths of the Bible were no longer to
him dim and unreal. They were distinct realities. He felt that it was no
vague desires and indefinite longings to which he was giving expression
in order to relieve his feelings. He was conscious of offering petitions
to a Being who was near at hand and not afar off.
The effort of mind and heart thus put forth was exhausting to his feeble
frame. It was followed by a quiet slumber. When Susan perceived that he
slept, she stole softly from the room, and hastened to acquaint her
father with her hopes respecting the preparation which her uncle was
making for his last journey.