IN EXILE.
George went direct from the office to the railway station, and took a
ticket to Plymouth. He had but a short time to wait before the train
left, and bore him away. The green fields and smiling country were
nothing to him; he felt no pleasure in seeing the merry, happy children
playing in the lanes, as the train whizzed past. The greetings of
friends on the platforms at the different stations only made him sigh.
Who would greet him on his journeys? Tired and worn out with sleepless
nights and anxious days, he tried to doze, but the attempt was vain. He
feared lest some one might have tracked his steps to the station, and
have telegraphed for him to be stopped at the terminus. Then, when he
had thought and pondered over such probabilities as these, and
endeavoured to dismiss them, he tried to form some plans for the future;
but all the future was dark--no ray of light, however faint or distant,
could be seen, and every plan he would make must be left to
circumstances. When the passengers alighted at one of the stations to
take refreshments, George got out too, for the purpose of breaking his
long fast. He tried to eat a biscuit, but he could not get it down,--all
appetite was gone; so, drinking a glass of ale, he wandered to the book
stall, and purchased a newspaper to read during the remainder of the
journey. The train started off again, and George settled himself to
read. The first thing that met his eye was an account of the assizes,
and the first case was headed, "Forgery by a Banker's Clerk." This
brought back to remembrance, more vividly than ever, the sad scenes of
the past few days; he threw the paper out of the window, and abandoned
himself to thought.
At last the train arrived at Plymouth. George hastened on to the
platform, and walked rapidly into the town, fearing lest any one should
recognize him, or lest any official should wish to detain him. With his
bag in hand, he wandered through the streets, uncertain what to do or
where to go. Presently he came to a small house, in an obscure street,
with a placard in the window stating that apartments were to let. He
knocked, and was answered by the landlady, a respectable looking woman,
who told him that she had a bedroom and sitting-room to let, and would
accommodate him on reasonable terms. George said he should not require
the room more than a few days, or a week, as he was about to leave by
one of the vessels in the port. The terms were arranged, and he at once
took possession. As it was very late, he thought he would go to bed
without delay.
"Will you not have some supper first?" asked the landlady.
"No, thank you," said George: "I am tired with my journey, and shall be
glad to get to sleep as soon as I can."
"But, sir, you really look ill," persisted the landlady, who was a kind,
motherly woman; "will you let me make you a little spirits and water?"
"I will not refuse that," said George, "for I do feel ill. Parting with
friends and relatives is at all times a disagreeable matter, and I have
bidden good-bye to them in London to-day, rather than bring them down
here."
"Ah, sir! parting is a sad thing," answered the woman. "It is two years
since my son went to sea; he was much about your age, sir, and he went
away against my wish, and I have never seen or heard from him since. He
has nearly broken my heart, poor boy, and left me all alone in this
wide, hard world."
George was glad to have some one to talk to, but he was distressed by
this narration of his landlady. If she mourned for her son, who had been
absent for two years, how would his mother mourn?
George passed a restless, anxious night; when he dozed off to sleep, it
was only to be tormented with harrowing dreams, in which he fancied
himself at one time standing before a judge in a court of justice,
answering to the crime of forgery. At another, gazing upon a funeral
procession moving slowly and solemnly along, with his Uncle Brunton
following as sole mourner. Then he would start up, half with joy and
half with sorrow, as he fancied he heard voices like those of his mother
and uncle calling to him from the street. His head ached, and his heart
was heavy. He felt thankful when the morning dawned, and it was time to
rise. He bathed his hot, feverish head in water, and dressed; but as he
passed by the looking-glass and caught a glance at his pale, haggard
countenance, so changed within a few short hours, he started.
"Oh, God! give me strength! give me strength!" he said. "If I should be
ill, if anything should happen to me, what should I do? I am all alone;
there is no one to care for me now!" And he sank down in a chair,
burying his face in his hands as if to hide the picture his mind had
drawn.
After breakfast, he strolled to the docks, looked over some of the
vessels, and made inquiries about the shipping offices. He learned that
a ship was about to sail immediately to Port Natal, and that all
information could be obtained of the agents. Thither George repaired;
the agent gave him an exaggerated account of the signal prosperity which
all enterprising young men met with in Natal, praised Pietermaritzburg,
the capital of the colony, and offered to give him letters of
introduction to residents there, who would advise him as to the best
ways of making a comfortable living. The agent then took him down to the
vessel, told him that he must take a passage at once, if he wished to
leave by her, as she would sail in two or three days at the latest. It
was a matter of comparative indifference to George where he went--the
large, lonely world was before him, and Port Natal might make him as
good a home as anywhere else. George went back with the agent to the
office, and paid a deposit of fifteen pounds on the passage money.
"What is your name, sir?" asked the agent, with pen in hand, ready to
make the entry.
George coloured as he answered, "Frederick Vincent."
"Then, Mr. Vincent, you will be on board not later than nine o'clock on
Tuesday morning; the vessel will go out of harbour by twelve. You can
come on board as much earlier as you like, but I have named the latest
time. You had better send your luggage down on Monday."
"Luggage?" said George. "Oh, yes! that shall be sent in time."
As George returned to his lodgings, he felt even more wretched than when
he started out It was Wednesday morning, and the vessel would not leave
till the following Tuesday. The excitement of choosing a vessel was
over; there was now only the anxiety and suspense of waiting its
departure. True, he had his outfit to purchase, but this would have to
be done furtively; he could not bear to be walking in the streets in
broad daylight, noticed by passers-by, every one of whom he fancied knew
his whole history, and was plotting either to prevent his departure, or
to reveal his secret.
Mrs. Murdoch (that was the name of his landlady) endeavoured to make him
as comfortable as possible in his apartments; but external comfort was
nothing to George--he wanted some word of love, some one to talk to, as
in days of old. He avoided conversation as much as possible with Mrs.
Murdoch, for she would talk of her absent son, and every word went as an
arrow to George's heart.
That first day seemed a week. Hour after hour dragged wearily along, and
when six o'clock in the evening came, George thought all time must have
received some disarrangement, for it seemed as if days had elapsed since
the morning. He went out after dark to a neighbouring shop and made some
purchases of outfit; but he was thankful when he had completed his task,
for he had noticed a man walking backwards and forwards in front of the
shop, and he felt a nervous dread lest it should be some spy upon him.
He resolved that he would remain in his rooms, and not go out again
until he left for the voyage on Tuesday, but would ask Mrs. Murdoch to
make the remainder of the necessary purchases for him.
How lonely and desolate George felt that night! More than once he half
determined rather to bear shame and reproach, and have the society of
those he loved, than continue in that dreadful isolation. He was
thoroughly unmanned. "Oh, that Hardy or Ashton were here, or any friend,
just to say, 'George Weston, old fellow,' once more; what a weight of
dreariness it would remove!" Then he would wonder what was going on at
home, whether his mother was plunged in grief, or whether she was
saying, "He has brought it all on himself, let him bear it." But George
could not reconcile this last thought; he tried hard to cherish it; he
felt he would infinitely rather know his mother was filled with anger
and abhorrence at his crime, than that she mourned for him, and longed
to press him to her bosom and bind up the wounded heart. But he could
not shake off this last idea. It haunted him every moment, and added to
the weight of sorrow which seemed crushing him.
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday passed, and George was still the victim
to anxiety and corroding care. He had paced his room each day, and
tossed restlessly in his bed each night; had tried reading and writing,
to while away the time, and had found every attempt futile.
Mrs. Murdoch was anxious on his account.
"Mr. Vincent," she said to him, "you eat nothing, you take no exercise;
you don't sleep at night, for I can hear you, from my room, tossing
about; and I am doctor enough to know that you are ill, and will be
worse, if you do not make some alteration. Do be persuaded by me, and
take some little recreation, or else you will not be in a fit state to
go on board on Tuesday."
"You are very kind, Mrs. Murdoch," replied George, "but I have no bodily
ailment. If I could get a change of thought, that is the best physic for
a mind diseased."
"It is, sir," replied the landlady; "and now will you think me rude if I
tell you how you may have that change of thought? You are about to start
on a very dangerous voyage; for long months you will have the sky above
and the sea below, and only a few planks between you and death. Have
you, sir, committed your way to the Lord, and placed your life in His
hands? I know it is a strange thing to ask you, but I hope you will not
be offended. You have seemed so sad for the past day or two, that I
could not help feeling you wanted comfort, and none can give it but the
Heavenly Friend."
"I do want comfort and support, Mrs. Murdoch, but--"
"No, sir, there is no _but_ in the case. 'Come onto Me, all ye that are
weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest'--is said to all; and
we only have to go to Him to find all we want."
"Well, Mrs. Murdoch, I will see if I cannot combine both your
suggestions; and as to-morrow will be Sunday, it will be a recreation to
go to some church or chapel. Can you recommend me a good preacher?"
"Yes, sir, that I can. If you will go to my pew at chapel to-morrow
morning, I am sure you will like the gentleman who preaches there."
"Then I will go," said George.
When he went up to his room again, those few words of Mrs. Murdoch were
still speaking to him.
"'Weary and heavy laden!' he thought; surely that is my lot. I so young,
once so happy, to feel weary and heavy laden; how strange! But no, it is
not strange--it is natural. Sin brings its punishment, and it is hard
work, bearing its burden! oh! that I could find some spot where I could
rest."
There was a spot, not far from George, where he could have rested, but
he did not know it. He was oppressed with his weariness, and he longed
for peace and ease of mind to come to him. He did not consider the
words, "Come unto ME."
There was an old Family Bible on the book-case in his room, and George
took it down. It was a long time since he had read the Word of God: and
when he had it was only to compare it with the dangerous opinions he had
received, and find out what he imagined to be its discrepancies and
contradictions. A feeling of remorse came over him as he put the book on
the table.
"What right have I to open this book, or attempt to find anything here
for encouragement?" he asked himself. "I have mocked and ridiculed it in
days of prosperity, and yet I am willing to take it up in trouble, as if
it were an old friend. Ah! it was an old friend once, but that has all
gone by now."
He sat a long time looking at the book. Perhaps there is nothing that
brings back the memories of the past more vividly than the sight of a
Family Bible to one who has long ceased to read and love it. There are
old scenes of childhood associated with it which time can never erase.
Who cannot remember sitting on his mother's knee, or with chair drawn up
beside his father, hearing its sweet music sounded in the home circle on
the Sabbath night? Who can forget the last evening of the holidays
before going back to school, when the old book was brought out, and some
useful text was selected as a monitor and remembrancer? Who can forget
the time when some loved one was ill, and as friends and relatives sat
round the bed of the invalid, the Book was laid upon the table, and
words of comfort were proclaimed to all.
Many and many a scene moved past George in the mental panorama which the
sight of Mrs. Murdoch's book created. He seemed not to be remembering,
but to be living in the former days. There was his father seated in the
old arm-chair, with Carlo, the faithful dog at his feet, and his elbows
rented upon the table, and his head upon his hand--a favourite
attitude--as he read the Sacred Word. There was dear old Dr. Seaward,
with his spectacles stuck up on his forehead, in his study at
Folkestone, and a party of boys round him, listening eagerly to the
words of instruction and advice which fell from his lips.
And then the past merged into the present, and George started to find
himself alone in a strange room, in a strange town, with a strange Bible
before him.
He opened the Book and read. The fifty-first Psalm was the portion of
Scripture to which he inadvertently turned, commencing, "Have mercy upon
me, O God, according to thy loving-kindness; according unto the
multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions."
He read the Psalm through in amazement. Again he read it, with
increased wonder and astonishment, that any one should have made a
prayer so exactly like that which he felt in his heart he wanted to
pray; and at last he went to the door and locked it, for fear of
interruption, took the Bible from the table and placed it on a chair,
and kneeling down read the prayer again; and repeating it aloud,
sentence by sentence, offered it up as his petition to the throne of
Mercy.
* * * * *
On Sunday morning, when the bells were ringing their glad peals, and the
people were already in the streets, on their way to the different places
of worship, George started off, directed by Mrs. Murdoch, to the chapel
of which she had spoken to him.
He felt very sad as he walked along; it was the last Sunday, perhaps, he
should ever spend in England, and he must spend it alone, an alien from
all whom he loved. The temporary calm which he had experienced on the
previous evening had gone; no prayer for assistance through the day had
issued from his lips that morning, but there was the old feeling of
shame, and chagrin, and disgrace, which had haunted him for the past
week, and with it the dogged determination to bear up against it until
it should be lost in forgetfulness. But George had resolved to go to
chapel that morning, because he felt he wanted a change of some sort,
and there was a melancholy pleasure in spending a part of his last
Sunday in England after his once customary manner.
The preacher was an old gentleman, of a mild, benevolent countenance,
and with a winning, persuasive manner. When he gave out the first hymn,
reading it solemnly and impressively, George felt he should have
pleasure in listening to the sermon. The congregation joined in the hymn
of praise, with heart and voice lifted up to the God of the Sabbath in
thanksgiving. The singing was rich and good, and George, who was a
passionate lover of music, was touched by its sweet harmony. He did not
join in the hymn, his heart was too full for that; but the strains were
soothing, and produced a natural, reverential emotion which he had been
long unaccustomed to feel.
The minister took for his text the words, "'Lord, if thou wilt, thou
canst make me clean.' And Jesus put forth His hand, and touched him,
saying, 'I will, be thou clean.'"
A rush of joy thrilled through George as he heard the words. His
attention was rivetted as he listened to the simple story of the leper
being restored to health; and when the preacher drew the comparison
between leprosy and sin, and revealed Jesus as the Great Physician to
the sick soul, who, in reply to the heartfelt wish, could say, "Thy
sins, which are many, are all forgiven thee," George felt the whole
strength of his soul concentrated in that one desire, "Lord, if thou
wilt, thou canst make _me_ clean." He looked into his own heart--he was
almost afraid to look--and saw the ravages of disease there. He thought
of his past life; there was not one thing to recommend him to God.
NEVER before had he seen his sin in the light in which it was now
revealed by God's Word. He had viewed it in relation to man's opinion,
and his own consciousness; but now the Holy Spirit was striving within
him, and showing him his position in the sight of God.
The preacher went on to unfold the sweet story of the Cross, to tell of
the simple plan of salvation, and to point to Jesus, the Lamb of God,
"who taketh away the sins of the world." It seemed to George as if he
had never heard the glad tidings before; it had never made the hot tear
run down his cheek, as he thought of the Saviour suffering for sins not
His own, until now; it had never before torn the agonised sigh from his
heart, as the truth flashed before him that it was he who had helped to
nail the Holy One to the accursed tree; he had never realised before
that earth was but the portal to the heavenly mansions--that time was
but the herald of eternity. Now, all these things came crowding upon his
mind, and when the sermon concluded he was in a bewilderment of joy and
sorrow.
A parting hymn was sung--that glorious old hymn--
"There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Emmanuel's veins."
When it came to those lines--
"The dying _thief_ rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;
And there may I, though vile as he,
Wash all my sins away:"
he could bear it no longer: he could not restrain the torrent of tears
which was struggling to get free; he could not stay in that assembly of
people; he must be alone, alone with God, alone with his own heart.
When he reached his apartments, he went immediately to his room, and
there, beside his bed, he knelt and poured out his soul to God. Words
could not tell his wants, words could not express his contrition; but
there he knelt, a silent pleader, presenting himself with all the dark
catalogue of a life's sin before his dishonoured God.
George thought he had experienced the extremity of sorrow during the few
days he had been in Plymouth, but it was as nothing compared with that
he now felt. He had grieved over name and reputation lost, prospects
blighted, and self-respect forfeited, but now he mourned over a God
dishonoured, a Saviour slighted, a life mis-spent. Is there any sorrow
like unto that sorrow which is felt by a soul crushed beneath the sense
of sin?
How that day passed, George hardly knew. He felt his whole life
epitomised in those few hours spent in solemn confession. Oh, how he
longed to realise a sense of pardon--to know and feel, as the leper knew
and felt, that he was made clean. But he could not do so: he only felt
himself lost and ruined, and found expression but in one cry, "Unclean!
unclean!"
He was aroused in the evening by the ringing of church bells again; and,
taking a hasty cup of tea, at Mrs. Murdoch's solicitation, he once more
bent his steps to the place of worship he had visited in the morning,
with the earnest desire and prayer that he might hear such truths
taught as would enable him to see Jesus.
How often does God "_devise means_ that His banished be not expelled
from Him," and in His providential mercy order those events and
circumstances to occur, which are instrumental in preparing the mind for
the reception of His truth! It was no chance, no mere coincidence, that
the preacher took for his text those words which were associated with so
many recollections of George, "_for me to live is Christ_."
Simply, but earnestly, he drew pictures of life, in its many phases, and
contrasted them with the one object worth living for. Upon all else was
written, vanity of vanities--living for pleasure was but another name
for living for future woe: living for wealth was losing all; living for
honour was but heaping condemnation for the last day: while living for
Christ gave not only pleasure, and riches, and honour here, but
hereafter. Then he spoke of the preciousness of Jesus to those who
believe, as the sympathising Friend, and the loving Brother; of the
honour and joy of living for Him who had died to bring life and
immortality to light; and of that "peace which passeth understanding."
That night there was joy in the presence of the angels of God over a
new-born soul. As George listened to the voice of the preacher, there
fell from his eyes as it had been scales, and he saw the Father running
to embrace the returning prodigal, and felt the kiss of His forgiving
love. The words which his earthly father had last spoken to him, were
those chosen by his heavenly Father to show him his new blissful
relationship as a son. And at what a gracious time! George was a
wanderer, an outcast, without father or friend, without object or aim in
life, and the doors of heaven were thrown open to him; the sympathy of
Divine love was poured into that aching heart, and the words of
rejoicing were uttered, "This, MY SON, was dead, and is alive again; was
lost, and is found."
The weary one was at rest, the heart of stone palpitated with a living
breath, "The dead one heard the voice of the Son of God, and lived."
Who can sympathise with George as he sat in his room that night,
overwhelmed with joy unspeakable? He was a new creature in a new world;
old things had passed away, behold all things had become new. He looked
up to heaven as his home, to God as his Father, to Jesus as his great
elder Brother; and he realised his life as hidden with Christ in God,
redeemed and reconciled, henceforth not his own, but given to Him who
had washed him, and made him clean in His own blood.
* * * * *
Great joy is harder to bear than great sorrow. George had suddenly gone
from one to the other extreme, and at a time when he was suffering from
physical prostration, the result of such strong mental struggles.
"Mr. Vincent, it is nine o'clock," Mrs. Murdoch called out, as she
knocked at his door next morning. No answer was returned.
"Mr. Vincent, will you come down to breakfast, sir?" she repeated more
loudly, but with no greater success.
Again she knocked, wondering that George should sleep so soundly, and be
so difficult to arouse, as he was accustomed to answer at the first
call.
"Mr. Vincent, breakfast is waiting!"
No answer coming, Mrs. Murdoch was anxious; she knew George had been
really ill for several days past, and had noticed his strange manner on
the previous evening. Without further hesitation, she opened the door,
and there on the floor lay George Weston, insensible, having apparently
fallen while in the act of dressing.
Calling for assistance, she at once laid him upon the bed, applied all
the restoratives at hand, and without a moment's delay despatched a
messenger to the chemist in the next street, with instructions for him
to attend immediately.