CONFESSED AT LAST.
VERY few words passed between the boys on the journey. Jack proposed
that Robert should go home with him, and wear a suit of his clothes
while his own were being dried. And when Robert said he was afraid his
aunt would think this a very strange and bold proceeding, he replied
that she had gone into the country for a few days, and that though his
father would return from one of his "rounds" that night, he was not
expected until ten or eleven o'clock.
Robert, when he heard this, leaned back in his corner with a sigh
of relief. Perhaps after all his mother would never know. Ah how he
hoped it might be so. As long as he lived he would never go on the
ice again. The terrible fate which had so nearly been his would never
be forgotten. Suppose he had been drowned? Others had been brought
lifeless from the water, and why not he? God was very good to have
spared him. He had not deserved such mercy. Nay, had he not by his
disobedience and deceit towards his earthly parents cut himself off,
as it were, from the protection and love of his heavenly Father? And
all for the sake of a little pleasure and excitement! A heavy penalty
indeed was he paying for his sin.
The poor boy was shivering with cold when presently the train arrived
at the station that was only a two minutes' walk from his friend's
home, and Jack, seeing how his teeth chattered and how white he looked,
said decidedly that he must go to bed while his clothes were being
dried. And though Robert declared he should be all right as soon as he
had got off his wet things and given himself a rub, Jack had his own
way.
And well and kindly did he look after Robert. Jack had owned to himself
that, if his schoolfellow had been drowned, he should always have felt
that his death was on his head, for had it not been for his persuasions
and sneers, Robert would never have learnt to skate, and therefore he
would not have gone on the ice that day.
Then the horror of the scene was still fresh in his memory, and again
and again he seemed to see it acted before his eyes. He had heard the
cries of warning and the piercing shriek that followed. He had been
almost paralyzed with fear at the panic that seized the skaters as they
turned and fled from the direction in which Robert had disappeared. He
had been thrust back when he approached the spot of danger; and oh!
the agony of those few minutes of suspense until he saw the dripping
form of his friend being borne towards him. To Jack, he appeared
already dead. But the people near assured him "he'd soon come round,"
and presently the chafing and rubbing took effect, and to Jack's joy,
Robert opened his eyes.
So now, he helped him undress, and then, going down to the kitchen,
he spread the wet clothes over a couple of chairs, and by some means
or other extracted a promise from the servant that she "wouldn't let
nothing interfere with the drying of 'em."
Then he coaxed her to let him have tea in his bedroom. But it was not
until he said it wouldn't be so much trouble as spreading it in the
dining room, as he himself would both carry the tray upstairs and bring
it down again, that she consented to such an unusual proceeding.
Under different circumstances the boys would have been happy enough.
But do what he would, Robert could not get warm, while the sight of
food only sickened him. But for Jack's persistent efforts to make him
take it, he would not have drunk his tea. At last, however, a cup of
the steaming beverage was swallowed, and then, for the first time since
he had returned to consciousness, he felt a warm glow steal over him.
But it was not a pleasant warmth, and presently the heat became more
painful than the previous shivering fits; a violent headache also came
on, and he could hardly speak for the acute throb that beat in his
temples.
Jack, finding it was the kindest thing to do, forebore at last to chat
and laugh in the hope of "cheering him up," and having taken down the
tea-tray, brought back a pile of school books, and sat quietly down
by the bed to do his preparation. He was glad to see that Robert was
asleep. But at intervals, he moaned and muttered, and Jack did little
study because he was constantly pulling up the blankets that Robert's
restless movements tossed from his body, leaving his arms and chest
exposed to the air. Presently, however, there came a longer silence
than usual, and, turning, Jack saw that Robert was awake.
"Is that you, Jack?" he asked.
"Yes, of course. Who else should it be?"
"I'm not at home, am I?"
"No, you're at my house and in my bed. Don't you remember that the ice
broke, and you fell in the water, and came here to get your clothes
dried?"
For a moment Robert looked puzzled. Then Jack saw that he remembered
everything.
"What's the time?" he asked.
"It's just gone eight."
Robert hastily rose on his elbow, but immediately fell back again with
a groan.
"Oh," he said, "how my head aches directly I move. But I mustn't stay
here any longer. Mother will be getting fidgety soon, and perhaps
she'll send round to know where I am. I must get up and go now, whether
my clothes are dry or not."
But they had received good attention before a blazing fire, and during
the three hours in which they had remained in the heat had become
thoroughly dry. Again Jack lent his aid, and soon Robert was ready to
start on his homeward journey.
If he had been left to walk to Madeira Street alone, perhaps he would
never have got there. But Jack once more took a cab, which, by his
order, put them down within a few doors of No. 99. Even for the little
distance that remained, Robert had company. He felt very grateful to
Jack, and told him so as he wrung his hand at parting.
"Jack, old chap, you've been awfully good to me. I don't know what I
should have done without you."
"Don't, I can't stand it;" and Jack's voice was actually choked with
tears. "If it hadn't been for me, you'd never have gone on the ice at
all. It's my fault, and if you had been drowned, it's I who would have
been to blame."
"You mustn't say that. But, Jack, I can't go again."
"And I'll never ask you. Robert, from this day you and I'll try to—"
"Try to be better, do you mean, Jack?" asked Robert, for Jack's
faltering voice had come to an abrupt stop.
"Yes. I won't be the tease and bully I have been. I'll try to do right
myself, and help others to do the same."
"So will I; but oh, Jack!—" and Robert shrank away from the door as he
stood on the step—"you don't know how I dread seeing mother. I needn't
tell her, need I?"
"I don't think so. If she finds out, she must. But according to you,
she's too good not to forgive you when she sees how sorry you are."
At that Jack left him, and Robert, feeling weak and sick, turned
towards the door which Mary was opening.
"Has mother been expecting me?" he asked, as he stepped into the hall.
"We kept tea ever so long," replied Mary, "and at last missus said I'd
better clear away, for she didn't think you were coming. Why, dear me!"
she exclaimed, as for the first time, he allowed her to see his face.
"If you don't look as white as a ghost!"
"I—I am not well to-night," he said, hurriedly. "Look here, Mary, I'm
going straight to bed. I shall be better then. Don't you let mother
know I've come in just yet. I've got an awful headache, and it's that
makes me look so pale. It'll go off as soon as I can lie down, and then
she won't be frightened."
"Well, I wouldn't like her to see you as you are now. Perhaps it's a
sick headache you've got. I know the best thing for that is a good
sleep."
Robert scarcely heard the words, he was in such fear lest his mother
would come into the passage and find him. As soon as he got to his
room, he began hastily to take off his clothes. For one brief moment
he knelt down, but to-night he could not pray. Again the "still, small
voice" within was prompting him to do what was right, regardless of
consequences.
"Tell your mother all," it said; "make a clean breast of it, and then
ask God to pardon you." But Robert would not confess his sin, and, sick
and wretched and miserable, he got into bed.
For a little while he tossed about wearily. Then not only in his head,
but in every limb, he felt the most acute pain; his whole body seemed
smarting, throbbing, and burning. Suddenly a great fear took possession
of him. Supposing after all he was going to die! And with that fear
there came a question which banished all other thoughts, even that of
the terrible sorrow and trouble he should bring upon his mother. Was he
fit to die? Had he not been disobedient, deceitful, and untruthful? And
was not God too holy and pure to look upon sin?
Then suddenly he remembered the words—and afterwards it seemed to him
that an angel must have whispered them in his ear—"If we confess our
sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us
from all unrighteousness."
And lo! at that Robert's heart was melted. He had often heard, and
often read, that "God is Love," but never before had he realised that
blessed truth, and with the rush of emotion that the realisation called
forth, he was filled with sorrow and repentance. Ah! If only he had
thought against Whom he was sinning, he would never have done it, for
he could never have borne to grieve so loving and tender a Father,
and he lingered fondly on the last word, as he said it to himself.
Confess his wickedness to his mother? Yes, he could now. And with the
determination to go to her at once, he rose from his bed and tried
to dress. At first it seemed that to do this was beyond his power,
and whether he finally succeeded or not he did not know, for a great
darkness fell upon him, and he remembered nothing more.
* * * * *
It was his mother who sat by his bed, with her cool hand on his
forehead, and—why, yes, the sunlight was shining into his room.
"Do you know me, Robert?"
"Yes, mother. Why am I here? Am I ill?"
"Yes, dear, but we hope you'll soon be well again. You must do just as
you are told, and then perhaps in a few days you will be able to get up
and go downstairs again."
"Have I been ill long?"
"You have been unconscious since last night, and it is now about two
o'clock in the afternoon. But you must not talk any more, Robert dear.
The quieter you keep yourself, the sooner you will be better. Lie
still, and try to sleep."
He lay still, but he could not sleep, and gradually the void and blank
in his mind became filled with memories. First of all, he recollected
that his father was away; then the last evening he had spent at home
returned to him, with the solemn trust which his father had reposed
in his children, and the promise they had each and all given him. He
remembered how he had listened with a wretched sense of shame and
unworthiness, for on that very day, and on two or three previous
occasions, he had gone, not merely directly against his parents' wish,
but against their direct command, that he should never learn to skate.
Little by little, after that, he recalled all that had taken place.
Jack's persuasions; his weak resistance and speedy surrender; the
journey to Hendon; his forgetfulness of everything except the enjoyment
and exhilaration of the exercise; his determination to make the most of
the last few minutes; the race in which he had first led, then dropped
behind, and then again headed; the cries he had mistaken; the awful,
horrible sensation of feeling himself sink beneath the water; his
return to consciousness, and all that had ensued.
And now he was lying there with his mother seated by his side. Would
her eyes have rested upon him so fondly and with such deep thankfulness
and joy if she had known? But she should know. The resolution with
which he had sprung out of bed on the previous evening to go to her
should be carried out without a moment's delay.
"What is it, dear? Do you want anything?"
"Mother, I must talk to you. I can't rest if I don't."
"Lie still, then, and tell me. You are throwing all the bedclothes off."
"I have been so wicked. I—I learned to skate before father went, and
yesterday—you said it was yesterday, didn't you?—I went to Hendon with
Jack, and the ice broke, and—"
"My child, I know all. I came up to your room last night to find you
insensible on the floor. We put you into bed and sent for Dr. Fowler,
but before he arrived I guessed much, and have since learned the whole
truth. In your delirium you told everything. My poor boy, I am so
sorry. If I could have done so, how gladly would I have saved you all
this misery and wretchedness."
"But, mother, I disobeyed you. I led you to think what wasn't true. Can
you ever forgive me?"
"Forgive you? Indeed I can and do;" and a loving kiss was fondly
imprinted on his forehead.
"And you can love me still?"
"Robert, nothing can draw a mother's love from her child, and I can
only rejoice over you when I think how nearly I have lost you. Your own
sin led you into the danger, but I know, too, that your repentance is
sincere and deep. Now confess your sin to God, and ask Him to forgive
you. Then thank Him, as I do, that He has spared your life. But it must
not end there, dear: you must show your sorrow for the past by leading
a new life in the future."
"I will. Oh, mother, how happy you have made me! I wish I had told you
before; I might have known you would have forgiven me. And I did want
to tell you. The night father went I was so miserable that I could not
sleep. I saw a light burning under Dora's door, and I thought I'd get
up and go to her. But she was busy writing out something, and didn't
want to listen to me, and so I came away without saying a word."
He did not know that as he began speaking, the door quietly opened and
Dora entered, nor did he notice the low, instantly checked cry that
escaped her lips as she heard his confession with regard to herself.
Neither did he see that his mother lifted a warning hand, and that, in
obedience to its next movement, Dora left the room.
"You will never be afraid of me again, Robert?" she said then, as she
bent nearer to him.
"Never. Please say again that you forgive and love me still. It is so
sweet to hear it."
What a mother he had! Not a word of reproach had she spoken; only in
loving, earnest accents had she told him of her love, and assured him
of her pardon. And even as she had forgiven him so would God. So not
only in that little room was there joy, but in heaven also, for a
sinner had repented; and like a child that is sick of its naughtiness
and perversity, Robert, with a calm, happy face, lay back on his
pillow, and was soon sleeping as peacefully as an infant.
But in an adjoining room, Dora was sobbing as though her heart would
break. Yes, it was as Robert had said. She might have known he was in
trouble that night, and needed her sympathy; and she remembered her
feeling of irritation and annoyance when he had interrupted her at her
work. No wonder her manner had prevented him from confessing his sin
and getting the relief for which he longed. Had she listened, he would
probably never have gone skating again, and he would have been saved
the disastrous results of his visit to Hendon. How differently would
she act if the past could but be lived over again.
Alas! Dora's sorrow ended here! For a few days she reproached herself
bitterly, but her constant round of occupations left her little time
for thought. As soon as she was assured that Robert was recovering, the
circumstance lost its importance, and was gradually forgotten.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]