THE SQUIRE’S STORY.
“SO you want to know the story of that summer fifteen years ago, do you?
I, I have never spoken of that time to any living creature since, but,
as you are to be my little son, perhaps you ought to know the story of
those who went before you.”
The Squire spoke in slow, measured tones. He looked straight before him
into the fire, and his voice had a dreamy, far-away sound, as the voice
of one who is lost in the depths of his own thoughts and memories.
Bertie, sitting upon the Squire’s knee, drew the encircling arm more
closely about him, and rested his head against the kindly shoulder that
gave it such comfortable support.
“I like to know everything about you,” he said, softly, “and about all
of them. I know a great deal, but not quite all. I want to know why you
wrote ‘Thy will be done.’”
The subtle sympathy that existed between the man and the child made
Bertie’s thought clear to the Squire. He understood the child’s meaning,
and saw that he had himself been understood.
“You want to know how I learned my lesson, Bertie? Very well, you shall
hear.”
He paused; but Bertie said nothing, and after a long silence the Squire
commenced his tale.
“I was an only child, and my parents were all that is kind and wise and
judicious. I was not spoiled, and yet I had every reasonable indulgence,
and I was very happy. I was brought up in the fear and love of God, as
well as in the earnest wish to do my duty to my fellow-creatures,
especially to those who lived about me, and were, or would be, in a
measure dependent upon me for their daily bread. I was never inclined to
treat such matters lightly, accepted the teaching my parents gave me
readily and sincerely, and I never felt tempted to wander from the
beaten track that my forefathers had trodden. I had a very happy,
untroubled youth, and life was very bright before and around me. I was
kind-hearted and generous, a favorite with our people, and if I had ever
been questioned upon the subject, I suppose I should have said that I
was doing my best to live the life of a Christian gentleman. I was not
in the least aware that there was nothing personal in my religion. I had
accepted it from my father and mother in just the same fashion as I had
accepted their politics and their teaching upon a variety of subjects;
only, whereas I interested myself deeply in secular subjects, and
verified the wisdom of their views by practical experience of my own, I
was content in the matter of religion to take all upon trust, and accept
everything they said, because I had no reason to doubt their wisdom, and
because it was much easier to let them do the thinking for me than to do
it for myself.
“As years passed by, changes came into my life. My parents died, and I
married, and had children of my own to care for. My life continued easy
and pleasant and prosperous, as it always had been. I was very happy,
and had never known what real trouble was. The death of my parents had
been my only grief. I mourned sincerely for them, but in the love of my
wife and the caresses of my baby boys I soon found comfort; and in this
happy and quiet way my life flowed on from year to year, till, like
somebody else of whom we read, ‘I said in my prosperity, I shall never
be moved; Thou, Lord, of Thy goodness hast made my hill so strong.’”
There was a pause, which the quiet little listener did not try to break.
How much he understood of all this, how much he entered into the frame
of mind described, the Squire did not pause to ask. It was plain enough
that he was deeply interested in any story that dealt with the past life
of one he loved so well.
“My wife, Bertie, was a very good woman. You see her picture there. She
brought up our children to be like her—how like I did not know for many
years. I was very happy and very busy every day of my life, from one
year’s end to another. I loved my wife, I loved my children very dearly.
They loved me in return, and it seemed as if no cloud ever shadowed our
peaceful home. Sickness never came within our doors. We often laughed at
our yearly doctor’s bill, it was so very small. Everything seemed to
thrive with us. Trouble passed us by as if it had no part or lot in our
house. I began to take our happiness and prosperity so much for granted
that I almost forgot to be grateful.
“Not so my wife; her gentle voice was often raised in thanksgiving for
the brightness of our lot. I always assented readily when she spoke of
the gratitude we owed to God. I did not know how little my heart really
responded to her words. I was soon, however, to learn that my service
had been all this while little more than the service of self.
“Fifteen years ago last summer, the cholera came to this country on one
of its periodical visits. It attacked our village; but in the first
instance the nature of the malady was not detected. Our good old doctor
was himself ill, and away for his health, whilst his young assistant was
quite inexperienced, and had never seen cholera in his life. We heard
that there were many cases of illness in the village, and from what we
heard we gathered that it was caused by some impurity in the water
supply. We had never been in the least alarmed on our own account when
attacks of sickness had from time to time taken place in the village. We
had never banished the children, nor had we ever had cause to repent our
temerity. My wife was assiduous as ever in ministering to the wants of
the sick. Nobody called it cholera during the first week that it visited
us. Many people took it and died, and a sort of panic set in; but that
made my wife only the more anxious to encourage others by her own
example.
“The boys had just come home for their holidays, and as they were very
popular in the village, and had a number of friends amongst the people,
they were continually running across; and if they heard of a case of
illness in any house they knew, they would look in to say a cheery word
to the sufferer and ascertain if he had everything he wanted.
“But at the end of a week the mortality became so great that the gravest
fears were excited. Medical help from other places was called in, and we
were soon made aware that the scourge of cholera had visited us. I took
the alarm then. I said to my wife that she must make instant
arrangements to leave, taking all the children with her, but that I
should remain to do what I could for the sufferers and to help those who
were working for them. My wife would fain have stayed with me, but I
would not hear of it. For the sake of the children she submitted to my
verdict; and, with the heroism that had always characterized her, she
forbore to tempt me away from the place where my duty bade me stay.
“It was on Saturday that we awoke to a sense of the peril of our
position. On Monday morning we had arranged that all for whom any
anxiety was felt, or who were at all afraid to remain, should leave the
house. All our plans were made—but they were made too late.
“On Sunday afternoon Mary came running to us with a frightened face,
saying that Tom had been suddenly taken very ill whilst playing in the
garden. We hastened to him, and found him cold and blue and almost
pulseless. We saw at a glance that he had been smitten by the relentless
foe, and when first I saw him my heart seemed to stand still, for I felt
certain that there was death in his face.
“We knew by that time what measures to take, and they were promptly
taken. We had been two hours with him, and still that state of rigid
collapse had not yielded, when Mary called us once again to say that
Charley was complaining of dreadful pain, and looked almost as bad as
Tom had done.
“There were two beds in the boys’ room. Tom occupied one now, and in
another hour Charley was lying still and rigid in his. The doctor came,
and looked very grave. From the character of the seizure in both cases,
he anticipated the worst from the first moment.
“That night both my boys died. They were conscious towards the last, and
they knew both their mother and me. She told them they were going home,
and asked if they were afraid. They told her no; because Jesus had died
for them. I asked them how they could be so sure of it; they looked half
surprised, and Tom answered, with a look I shall never forget—it seemed
so strange in the eyes of laughter-loving, careless, merry Tom.
“‘He said so, father; and besides, I feel it _here_’—laying his hand on
his heart. ‘He said, He died for _all_ of us. He said, He took away
_all_ sin with His blood. I know He’s taken away mine. Mother and I have
asked Him so often.’
“Charley’s testimony was more faintly spoken,—the boy had suffered much
and was sinking rapidly,—but it was just as clear.
“He’s coming for me, mother dear. Don’t cry, sweet mother. I’d like to
stay with you if I could; but He knows best. He’s so good; and I am
quite happy. You will be—happy—too.”
“And so they died—both in one night—brave and steadfast and fearless, as
young soldiers who have known something of the battle, even if their
fighting days have been but brief. They were not unhappy or afraid.
Dying for them was but leaving one happy home to find another—a far
brighter one than this could ever be.
“My wife was the next—she was only two days behind her boys; and her
little girls so closely followed her that she could hardly have had time
to miss them before she found them again in the everlasting home. For a
very little while I hoped that my last little boy, the pet and darling
of the house, was to be left to me. Each night, as I visited him in his
sleep, and marked the bloom on his cheek and the healthy, natural
slumber, I told myself that he would surely be spared me; but there came
one morning when I saw, by the frightened and averted glances of my
servants, that some new calamity had befallen me. I asked no question,
but went straight up to the nursery.
“There he lay in his little bed, white and still as marble; his little
hands crossed upon his breast, and fair white flowers around him. He had
been found dead in his bed in the morning, having evidently passed away
in his sleep. The poison had done its work swiftly and well, and the
child had not known one struggle or one pang.
“They were all laid in the quiet churchyard within a week of each other.
The sickness declined amongst us from that day; and only the many new
mounds in the graveyard and the empty chairs around many hearths were
left to tell the tale of that terrible time.
“I was left alone in my home—quite alone; for in my despair I found that
what I had taken to be my love of God and trust in Him was all an
illusion, a shadow that vanished away the moment my prosperity was
overthrown. God was showing me the true worth of those things in which I
had put my trust. He was showing me that I had never known Him truly all
my life long. I was not quick to learn the lesson He was teaching me.
Trouble hardened my heart, and in my thoughts I reviled the God who had
taken away all that made the happiness of my life and had left me alone
in misery and darkness. For a long time I was very, very unhappy.
“At last, in the days of my darkness and misery, God sent me a message
of comfort. He sent it me by the hand of my dead wife—in a few words she
had pencilled on the fly-leaf of her Bible, only a few hours before her
death, and which it was months before I found courage to read.
“‘God will be with you always, my dear husband,’ she wrote. ‘His Holy
Spirit will be your support and stay in all trials, and will lead you to
the eternal home in our Father’s own good time—’ The pencil had
evidently dropped from her fingers then; but she had told me enough.
“‘Lord, give to me the guidance of Thy Holy Spirit,’ was my daily
prayer, when once the hardness of my heart was melted, and I had sought
my Saviour’s forgiveness and pardoning love. That prayer was not uttered
in vain. In His own good time God sent His Comforter to me; and I trust
that I have learned the lesson He taught me during those dark and
desolate days. We are always failing, always slipping, always needing
new lessons and new strength to learn them; but I think there is one
great life-long lesson that I shall not have to learn again.
“When I had learned it first, I put upon the marble slab over the grave
that held my all the words I have never since wished unsaid—‘Thy will be
done.’”
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