That evening a horror of great darkness fell upon the soul of Walter
Petherick. He spent the sunset hours quietly with the young people, and,
before they bade each other good-night, he read with them again the
passage that had so impressed them in the morning. Then, left to
himself, Mr. Petherick put on his hat and took a stroll in the lane. It
was a perfect summer's evening, warm and star-lit; yet its peace failed
to penetrate his tortured soul. A glow-worm twinkled in the grass under
the hedge, but no ray of light pierced the impenetrable gloom within. He
returned to his room, and, after sitting for a while at the open window,
looking down on the sluggish waters of the tranquil river, he threw
himself on his knees beside his bed. One by one he prayed for each of
his children. The red cross that he had seen on so many doors seemed to
have stamped itself upon the retina of his eye; it blazed before him
even whilst the lids were closed in prayer.
'Lord, have mercy on us!' said the legend under the cross.
'Lord, have mercy on us!' cried Mr. Petherick over and over and over
again.
He thought of the morning's text, but it only mocked him, as the
sunshine mocked him on his way to church.
'I could not say it,' he moaned. 'If my children were snatched from
me--my fine boys and my lovely girls--the treasures that _she_ left
me--how could I _rejoice in the Lord and joy in the God of my
salvation_?'
He broke into a fresh outburst of supplication. Again he mentioned each
of his children by name. 'Spare him; oh, spare him!' he cried; and, as
he thought of the girls, 'Spare her, O Lord; have pity, I beseech Thee!'
He wiped his face; it was damp with perspiration. He allowed his
forehead to rest upon his folded arms; and then, bowed there in the
solitude of his room and in the stillness of the summer night, a strange
thought took possession of him.
V
He remembered to have prayed as fervently as this before--many, many
years ago. In those days--the days of his earliest religious
experiences--he had prayed, almost as earnestly as this, for his own
spiritual prosperity, for the extension of Christ's Kingdom and for the
enlightenment of the world. It seemed like a dream as he recalled it. He
was scarcely more than a boy in those days. The ardor and intensity of
that distant time had deserted him so gradually, and had vanished so
imperceptibly, that he had never missed it until now. Love had come into
his life, irradiating and transfiguring everything. Love had led to
marriage; four happy children had brought added gladness to his home and
fresh contentment to his heart; and he had abandoned himself without
reserve to these domestic cares and comforts. The things that had so
completely captivated his soul were all of them _good_ things--just as
the fig and the vine and the olive, the corn and the flocks and the
herds were all of them _good_ things--but he had allowed them to elbow
out the wealthiest things of all. The _good_ had become the enemy of the
_best_. Before his heart had been gladdened by those treasures that were
now so dear to him, he had every day _rejoiced in the Lord and joyed in
the God of his salvation_. But not since! His enrichment had proved his
impoverishment! What was it that the preacher had said? 'It is a small
thing to love the _gifts_ as long as you possess the _Giver_; the
supreme tragedy lies in losing the _Giver_ and retaining only the
_gifts_.' And Walter Petherick felt that night that that supreme tragedy
was his.
He rose from his knees, reached for his Bible, and turned once more to
the chapter from which the minister had preached. '_O Lord_,' it began,
'_revive Thy work in the midst of years!_' He himself was '_in the midst
of years_.' The thought brought with it a sense of shame and a rush of
thankfulness. He was _ashamed_ that he had permitted the years that had
gone to filch so much from him. Like waves that strew treasures on the
shore, and snatch treasures from the shore, he felt that the years had
brought much and taken much. Yet he felt grateful that he was still '_in
the midst of the years_'; it is better to discover life's loss at the
halfway house than to find it out at the end of the journey! He returned
the Bible to its place, and, as he did so, he closed his eyes and
repeated for himself the prophet's prayer.
'_O Lord_,' he cried, '_revive Thy work in the midst of the years; in
the midst of the years make known; in wrath remember mercy!_'
It seemed as if the prayer had opened the gates of his soul to the peace
of the night. As he looked again at the glistening river, he felt
strangely soothed and comforted. And, half an hour later, he was
sleeping as restfully as any of his children.