GOING HOME.
WEEKS passed away, and old Peter Marshall was still alive. The doctors
had consented to his being removed from the hospital to his own home,
where Mr. Heighington, assisted by a faithful and attached domestic,
nursed and watched over him with tender care.
Many of the patients wept when he was taken away. Unconsciously to
himself, he had delivered his Master's message; and the memory of it
remained long after the pale lips that uttered it were silent for ever.
The old man spoke but little after they brought him home. He did not
appear to suffer, but grew weaker and weaker day by day. His labour of
love was ended; and he waited only for the Master's summons—"Well done,
good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."
Mr. Heighington never left him for long together. And thus it name to
pass in that hushed and quiet chamber, where the silent watcher sat
with clasped hands and bowed head, with the open Bible before him, a
gentle wind arose—that same wind of which we are told that "it bloweth
where it listeth, and no man heareth the sound thereof, or is able to
tell whence it cometh, or whither it goeth." The blessed teaching of
the Holy Spirit wrought out a great and marvellous work at which the
angels in the presence of God wondered and rejoiced.
The old man's prayer was answered at last. If he could only have known
it! One would almost imagine that he did by the smile on his pale face.
One evening, upon returning after a short absence from the sick room.
Mr. Heighington saw a young girl, whom our readers will recognise as
Kate Donaldson, standing in the passage and weeping bitterly. She held
the card which Marshall had given her in her hand. She had only just
heard of his accident and subsequent illness.
A few kind and sympathetic words soon elicited her sad and touching
history. She should not have ventured to come, she said, although he
had asked her to do so; but a friend of his, residing in the same house
as she did, was very ill, and in great distress, and she had sought him
on his account.
Mr. Heighington inquired the name of the person to whom she referred as
being a friend of Mr. Marshall's. But he was too much occupied with his
own thoughts to remember Matthew Reardon.
"You can tell Mr. Reardon," said he, "that his friend has met with an
accident, and is not expected to live; but that I will endeavour to
call round and see him myself the first opportunity."
"No," replied Kate, shaking her head, "I can't tell. I have never
spoken to him in my life. He doesn't even know that I have come. But
you won't be long, sir, for he's about as bad as he can be."
"Not longer than I can help," answered Mr. Heighington, as he took down
the address on the back of poor Marshall's card. "Is there nothing else
I can do for you?"
"Nothing, sir, thank you," replied the girl—"only I should like to have
seen him, if I might. I should like to have told him it was all true he
said to me that night about the love of Christ to poor sinners, even
the chief—and about His not casting them away. If I could only have
told him, and thanked him—and I think that he would be glad too."
"It would be of no use seeing him," answered Mr. Heighington, sadly.
"He would not know you. He does not know any one. But he will know all
in that day when 'they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of
the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars
for ever and ever.'"
It was raining fast when Mr. Heighington opened the street door to let
her out.
"What will you do?" asked he, with a compassionate glance at her thin
faded garments. "You will be wet through."
"I don't mind, sir. I'm used to it."
"Can you not ride—a part of the way, at least?"
"I dare say I could," replied Kate, "if I was rich enough. Oh, sir! I
did not mean that!" added she, hastily, as Mr. Heighington slipped a
piece of money into her hand. "I'm sorry I spoke as I did—and yet if
you could spare it, it would make me very happy!"
"All right," replied Mr. Heighington, kindly. "I give it to you for his
sake."
"For his sake," repeated Kate, softly. "Indeed, sir, I would not take
it for myself. I'm earning my own living now—an honest living—but
nothing over, try and stint as I will, and I want money badly just now.
Good night, sir, and thank you kindly."
The old servant shook her head as she stood a moment at the door
watching the slight, figure of the young girl as she passed with rapid
steps through the cold wet streets, and then shut it hastily to keep
out the driving rain.
"She'll never ride," exclaimed the woman. "It was a pity, begging your
pardon, sir, that you let her have the money."
"Not if it made her happy," was the reply.
"It would have been much better to have given her a decent shawl
instead of the trumpery thing she had on—although to be sure she might
have pawned it. She looked one of that sort!"
"I don't believe that there is any harm in the girl," said Mr.
Heighington.
"I suppose not, sir. But I should just like to see what she is going to
do with the money in such a hurry."
It was well, perhaps, that the woman could not see Kate Donaldson,
after making a few purchases of tea and other groceries, enter a
fruiterer's shop, and singling out one of the most tempting bunches of
grapes which she could find, pay the price demanded for it without a
murmur.
Even the owner of the shop could not help regarding her with some
curiosity, after carefully examining the money.
"It's a dear time for grapes just now," said he.
"Is it! But then how fine they are!" replied Kate, holding them up
admiringly.
"Poor thing!" exclaimed the woman, as she went out, carrying them
carefully in her hand into the pitiless rain. "I hardly liked taking
the money. She looks as if a meal's victuals would have done her more
good."
"I don't see that it's any concern of ours," replied her husband,
dropping the change into the till as he spoke. "If she wanted a meal's
victuals, why didn't she get it instead of a bunch of hothouse grapes
fit only for her betters?"
Mr. Heighington did not forgot his promise, but somehow it
unfortunately happened that he lost the card upon which Matthew
Reardon's address was written, and after a long and vain search was
obliged to give up all hope of being able to find the place.
It was strange how old Peter Marshall lingered on from day to day. The
hospital doctors, who had taken an interest in the case, and continued
to visit him, said smilingly to each other—for they could smile, being
used to such things—that they thought that "Death must have forgotten
the old man." But he came at last, one cold grey morning just before
the dawn. A ray of consciousness stole back to the dim shadowy eyes,
and stretching out his hand as one feeling in the dark, he asked in a
feeble voice for "Master Frank," just as if he had known that he had
been watching over him all the time.
No one knew what passed between them in that brief and solemn
interview. By-and-bye the household stir, the business of human life,
recommenced; but the old clerk had entered into his rest—"the rest that
remaineth for the people of God."