_SAUL TRESITHNY_
His eyes opened slowly upon the unfamiliar room. The shaft of sunlight
slanting in from the west shone upon a comfortable apartment, far
larger and loftier than anything to which he had been accustomed. The
window was larger, the fireplace was wider, and there was a clear
fire of coal burning in the grate, very different from the peat and
driftwood fires to which he had been long accustomed. The only familiar
object in the room was the figure of his grandfather, bending over
the big Bible on the table, as he had been so used to see it from
childhood, when he awakened from sleep in the early hours of the night,
and looked about him to know where he was.
For a moment a dreamy wonderment came over him. He asked himself
whether he had not been dreaming a long, long troubled dream of manhood
and strife, and whether, after all, he were not a little child again,
living in his grandfather’s cottage, happy in his games upon the shore,
and looking eagerly forward to the time when he should be a man and
could follow the fortunes of fishermen and smugglers, or have a big
garden to care for like Abner.
But this dreamy condition did not last long. There was a bowed look
about Abner, and his hair was altogether too white for him to be
identified with the Abner of twenty years back. Saul raised his own
hand and looked at it curiously. It was shrunken to skin and bone, but
a great hand still, with indications of vanished power and strength.
The dark sombre eyes roved round and round the room. Memory was
awakening, the mists of fever and delirium were passing away. Suddenly
Saul seemed to see as in a panorama the whole map of his past life
rolled out before him. It was written in characters of fire upon the
bare walls of the room. Everywhere he looked he saw his wild and evil
deeds depicted. Why was it that they looked black and hideous to him
now, when hitherto he had gloried in them--gloated over them? He saw,
last of all, the doomed vessel bearing straight down upon the cruel
rocks. And now he seemed to see a face on board that vessel--the face
of one he loved--the face of the man who had held out his hand in
friendship, when (as he believed) all the world beside had turned its
back upon him. He saw the face of this friend looking at him with a
deep reproach in the eyes, and a sudden groan of anguish broke from
Saul’s lips as he stretched out his hands to stay the course of the
doomed vessel.
At the sound of that groan Abner rose quickly and came forward to the
bedside. The ray of dying daylight was fading already, and the shadow
of the winter’s evening closing in; and yet in the dimness about the
bed, Abner thought he saw something new in Saul’s face.
“Saul, my lad,” he said gently, “do you know me?”
“Tu be sure I du,” answered Saul, and wondered why his voice sounded so
distant and hollow. “What’s the matter, grandfather?”
“You have been in a fever for many days, my lad, and didn’t know
anybody about yu. What is it, boy? Don’t excite yourself. Yu must be
kept quite quiet.”
Saul’s face was changing every moment, turning from red to pale
and pale to red. He was struggling with emotion and a rush of
recollection. For a moment Abner’s voice and presence had arrested the
course of his memories; but now they came surging back.
“Grandfather, tell me,” he cried, struggling to sit up and then sinking
back in his weakness, “what happened?--how did I get out of the water?
Where is Mr. Marchmont?”
“Here in the castle. You were brought in together. They could not loose
your clasp upon him for a long time.”
“And where is he? Is he alive?”
“Yes--alive, and like to live.”
Saul suddenly pressed his hands together and broke into wild weeping.
“Thank God! thank God!” he cried, his whole frame shaken with sobs.
“Grandfather, pray for me--you know I never learned to pray for
myself--at least I have well-nigh forgotten now. But down on your
knees and thank God for that for me! May be He will hear yu. It must
have been He that saved him; for the devil was at my ear all the while
prompting me to let him die.”
Abner was already on his knees, with a thanksgiving of his own to
offer. He had prayed too much and too earnestly, both in secret and
before his fellow-men, to lack words now in this hour of intense
gratitude and thanksgiving. In rugged yet not ill-chosen words
he lifted up his voice and gave thanks to God for His great and
unspeakable mercies in giving back this one life from the destruction
that had come upon all besides; and in permitting the very man whose
sin had brought about this fearful thing to be His instrument for the
salvation of the life of his friend. He pleaded for mercy for the
sinner with an impassioned eloquence which bespoke a spirit deeply
moved. He brought before the Lord the sins and shortcomings of this
erring man, now stretched on a bed of sickness, and besought that the
cleansing blood of Christ might wash them all away. He pleaded for
Saul as he never could have pleaded for himself. He brought together
all those eternal promises of mercy which are to the sinner as the
anchor and stay of the soul in the deep and bitter waters of remorse.
He pleaded with his Redeemer for the soul of his grandson with a
fervour only inspired by a love and a faith too deep to be daunted by
any considerations as to the weight of iniquity to be pardoned, or the
lack of faith in the one thus prayed for. And Saul, lying helpless
and tempest-tossed, listened to this pleading, and found his tears
bursting forth again. He had seen before all the black and crushing
iniquity of his own past record, but now was brought before his eyes
a picture of the infinite and ineffable love of a dying Saviour--the
Lord of Glory crucified for _him_--bearing _his_ sins upon the Cross
of shame--stretching out His wounded hands and bidding _him_ come to
that Cross and lay down his burden there. It was too much for Saul,
softened as he was by the sense that God had already answered his
prayer even in the midst of his sin and wickedness, and had given him
the one petition, the only one he ever remembered to have offered. The
whole conception of such divine mercy was too much--it broke down all
his pride and reserve and sullen defiance--it broke his heart and made
it as the heart of a little child. His tears gushed forth. He clasped
his hands, and lifted them in supplication to his Saviour. He could not
have found words for his own guilt, but he could follow the earnest
words of the grandfather, whose simple piety he had hitherto held in
a species of lofty contempt. And in that still evening hour, with the
dying day about them, and the shadow of death hovering as it were in
the very air above them (for Saul was dying, although he knew it not
yet; and Abner knew that his hours were numbered, though he might
linger for a day or two yet), the erring soul turned in penitence and
love to the Saviour in Whose death lay the only hope of pardon, and in
Whose resurrection-life the only hope of that life immortal beyond the
grave, beyond the power of the second death, and found at last peace
and rest, in spite of all the blackness of past sin.
For when the Saviour’s Blood has washed away the sin, the blackness
can no longer remain. Humble penitence and contrite love remain, but
the misery and despair are taken away. He bears the grief and carries
the sorrow; He takes the shame, the curse, the wrath of a holy and a
just God. It was a thought almost too overwhelming for Saul to bear.
It broke his heart and humbled him to the very dust. But he no longer
fought against the infinite love--no longer hardened his heart against
the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of comfort and sanctification. He had felt
the blessedness of the pardoning love, and he yearned for the guiding
light that should show him how he might direct his steps for the time
that remained to him.
Of that time he had not yet thought. Those hours had been too crowded
with extreme emotion. He had passed through a crisis of spiritual
existence which made all earthly things dwarf into insignificance. It
was only when the hour of midnight tolled forth, and he recollected
that a new day had begun for him, that he first folded his hands in
prayer, lifting up his heart to God in thanksgiving for the light which
was now in his soul, and then turning his gaze upon Abner, who had
never moved from his side all this while, asked softly--
“What day is it?”
“Sunday, my lad. A new day and a new week. I little thought upon the
last Sunday what the Lord had in store for me for this. The Lord’s Day,
my lad--the Lord’s Day. That’s what I love to call it. May we have
grace to keep it to His glory. Saul, my lad, you have no fears now?”
“Fears of what, grandfather?”
“Fears about the Lord’s love--about the forgiveness He has granted yu?”
A singular radiance came over Saul’s face.
“No--I can’t doubt it. It’s too wonderful to be understood. But I can
feel it right through me. I’ve no fear.”
“And would you fear, my boy, if you had to see Him face to face--if you
should be called upon to meet Him--if He should come this very night to
gather to Himself those that wait for His coming?”
Saul looked earnestly into the old man’s face. He knew something of
Abner’s belief and hope, though it was now several years since he had
spoken of it in his hearing. As a youth his grandfather, who was slowly
gathering up fragments from the prophetic Scriptures, and, in common
with many others who met for prayer and meditation, beginning to awaken
to a belief in the sudden and instantaneous appearing of the Lord on
earth, had striven to convince the boy of the truth of this belief,
and awaken within his soul that burning love and longing after the
coming and kingdom of the Lord which was stealing upon his own. Saul,
however, had not been responsive. To him it was all old wives’ fables,
and he had sometimes mocked and sometimes sneered, so that Abner
had soon ceased to urge him, trusting that faith would come at last
through the mercy of God, though not by the will of man. Nevertheless
the foundations had been laid, inasmuch as Saul now understood what
his grandfather meant, and could even recall the words of Scriptural
promise in which Christ had spoken of His return, and the Apostles had
exhorted the early churches to remain steadfast in the hope of it. And
as these memories crowded in upon his mind and brain now--now that
the love of the Lord had awakened within him, and he was only longing
for some means of showing that love and abasing himself at His feet
in penitence and adoration--the memory of these words and promises
came back to him charged with a wonderful beauty and significance, and
clasping his hands together he replied in a choked voice--
“It is too wonderful and beautiful to be believed, but He has said it.
If He were to come to-night, grandfather, I dare scarcely to hope that
such an one as I should be counted worthy to be caught away to meet Him
in the air; but if I might but look upon His glorified face it would be
enough. He would know how much I love Him, and how I hate myself and
my vile life. I should see Him--I should be able to look up to Him and
say--‘My Lord and my God!’ I do not even ask more!”
Abner was silent for a moment, and then said in a voice that quivered
with the intensity of his emotion--
“And, my lad, if the Lord delays His own coming, but calls to you to
meet Him in another way, would you be afraid?”
Saul looked at him quickly, and read in a moment all that was in
Abner’s soul.
“Do you mean that I shall die?” he asked.
There was silence for a moment, and then Abner spoke--
“It may not be to-night, but it must be soon. The doctor says you
strained your heart so terrible hard that night, and there was
something amiss with you before. I don’t rightly understand his
words, but you’ve never been the same since that fever, and when you
were knocked down by the horses they did you a mischief you’ve never
got over. That night on the wreck was the last straw, as folks say.
There’s something broke and hurt past mending. You won’t have no pain,
but things can’t go on long. You’ll not be long before you see your
Saviour, my lad; for I’m very sure we go to be with Him, even though we
may not share His glory till the blessed day of the Resurrection.”
A strange awe fell upon Saul. His eyes looked straight at Abner with an
expression the latter could hardly fathom. Was it fear? Was it joy? Was
it triumph? He did not know, but Saul’s next words gave him the clue.
“It is goodness past belief--I can’t understand it!”
“What, my boy?”
“Why, that the Lord should take me to Himself, when He might have left
me to a life of misery and degradation in a far-off land with criminals
and evil-doers, or sent me to the scaffold, as I was nearly sent
before. After such a life as I’ve led, to take me away to His beautiful
land of rest. It’s too much--it’s too much! I don’t know how to thank
Him aright. Grandfather, get down upon your knees again and tell
Him--though He knows it, to be sure--that for love of Him I’m willing
to live that life of misery, or die the shameful death I’ve deserved,
and led others to, I fear. Let it be only as He wills, but to be taken
away from it all to be with Him seems more blessedness and goodness
than I can rightly understand.”
Tears were running down Abner’s face. His voice was broken by sobs.
“Oh, my boy! my boy! if that’s how you feel, I’ve no fears for you.
That’s the feeling we should all strive after. Whether we live, we
live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: so
that, living or dying, we are the Lord’s. If it’s so with thee, my
boy, there’s nought else to wish for thee. The peace that passes all
understanding will be with thee to the end. Oh, bless the Lord! thank
the Lord! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”
For many minutes there was in that chamber of death such a sense of joy
and peace as was indeed a foretaste of the everlasting peace of God.
Saul lay and looked out before him through the casement, through which
a very young moon was just glinting. It was a strange thought that
before that moon waned his body would be lying stiff and cold beneath
the churchyard sod. But there was no fear in Saul’s mind. Fear had
never been a friend to him, and now the perfect love of his crucified
and ascended Lord had driven out all fear. Yet even with the prospect
of that wondrous change to pass upon him, Saul’s thoughts were not all
of himself. He listened to all there was to know of the men he had
lured and tempted to this great crime, and heaved a sigh of relief to
hear that the magistrates had themselves dealt with the cases of the
younger men--men some of them little more than lads, who had plainly
been led away by their associates, and had had a lesson they would not
be likely to forget. Only six had been committed for trial, and these
were all men of bad character and reckless lives. Their fate might
likely be a hard one, but they were to have counsel to defend them,
and stress was to be laid upon the action of Saul in the matter, and
the part he had taken in urging the crime upon them. Saul made a full
confession of all his share to Abner that night, and made him promise
to attend the trial and repeat this before the judges if possible. It
might militate in their favour perhaps, and Saul directed that his boat
and all that he had should be sold and given to the wives of the two
men out of the six who were married; and having settled all this with
his grandfather, he felt his mind relieved of a part of its burden, and
lay quiet and exhausted for some time.
He had fallen into a doze when Abner aroused him to take food, and
looking up quickly he asked--
“Where are we now? I don’t know this place.”
“It’s a room in the castle--in the servants’ block,” answered Abner.
“I told yu they could not get your clasp loosened from Mr. Marchmont’s
neck. They had tu bring yu both here, and then the doctor would not let
yu be taken away--not even so far as my cottage. Yu were brought here,
and yu’ve had the same care and attention as Mr. Marchmont himself. The
doctor went to and fro betwixt yu all that night, and has been three
and four times a day tu see yu ever since.”
A little flicker passed over Saul’s face. He remembered, as a thing
long since past, his old hatred of the class above him. Now he could
only feel love for all men--a natural outcome of the intense and
burning love for his Lord which was filling all his heart.
“If I could only see him once more!” he said softly.
“See what?”
“Mr. Marchmont.”
But Abner shook his head, and such an expression of gravity came over
his face that Saul cried out quickly--
“What is it? Yu said he was doin’ well!”
“Yes--that is what we heard at first. It is true tu--so far as it goes.
When we feared he would die, it seemed everything to know that his
life was spared; but after that came terrible bad news tu. His life is
safe--the doctor says he will live years and years--to be an old man
like enough; but it’s doubtful whether he will ever walk again. He’s
been hurt in the back, and is what folks call half paralysed. He’s got
the feelin’s in his limbs, but no power. He lies on his back, and there
he’ll lie for years. He may get better very slowly, they say. A great
doctor from London has been down, and says with his strength and youth
he may bit by bit get back his strength and power; but anyhow it’ll be
a question of years; and meantime there he’ll lie like a log, and have
to be tended and cared for like a baby.”
Saul put his hand before his eyes and Abner stopped short, realising
that perhaps he had said too much, and that what had grown familiar to
him during these past days had come on Saul as a shock.
And indeed it might well do so; for if any one in so different a
position in life could estimate the terrible death-in-life of such a
fate for one with all Eustace’s enthusiasm and ardent thirst for active
work, Saul Tresithny could; for Eustace had talked with him as man to
man, and had told him of his personal aims and ambitions and purposes
as a man of his class seldom does to one in a sphere so entirely
different.
“Crippled for life--perhaps! Crippled through my crime! O my God, can
there be forgiveness for this? Ah! yes--His Blood washes away _all_
sin. But my punishment seems greater than I can bear!”
He lay still for a few moments and then half rose up in bed.
“I must see him--I must! I must ask his pardon on my knees. If my
Saviour has pardoned my guilt, I must yet ask pardon of him whom I
have so grievously wronged. Grandfather, help me!--I must go to him. I
cannot die till I have seen him once again!”
In great perplexity and distress, Abner strove to reason with the
excited patient, and great was his relief when the doctor appeared
suddenly upon the scene.
Inquiring what all the commotion was about, and learning that Saul had
recovered his senses, but had grown excited in his desire to see Mr.
Marchmont once more, he thrust out his under lip and regarded the young
man intently, his finger upon his patient’s wrist all the while. Then
he spoke to him quietly and soothingly.
“I will let you see him to-morrow, if possible,” he said kindly. “I
understand your feeling; but to-night you must be content to wait and
gather a little strength. Mr. Marchmont is sleeping, and had better
not be disturbed; but if you sleep too, the hours will soon pass.
To-morrow I will do what I can to gratify you,” and having quieted Saul
and administered a soothing draught, he drew Abner with him outside the
door.
“Can he really do it?” asked the old man wonderingly. “I thought he was
like to die at any sudden movement or exertion.”
“Yes, that is true; but there are cases where repose of mind does
more than rest of body. Saul is so near to the gates of death that it
matters little what he does or does not do. How the heart’s action
keeps up at all in the present condition of the organ I do not know;
but the end cannot be far off. If he is bent on this I shall not thwart
him beyond a certain point. He may have forgotten by the morning; but
if not, we must see what we can do to get him there. The distance is
very short--only a few steps along this corridor, and through the swing
door, and you are close to Mr. Marchmont’s room. I think the exertion
of movement will try him less than the tossing and restlessness of
unfulfilled expectation and desire. Let him have his night in peace,
if possible. But if the desire should grow too strong upon him, let
him have his way. It cannot do more than hasten the inevitable end by
a brief span. I am not sure whether his strength will not desert him
at the first attempt to move, and he may give it up of his own free
will; but do not thwart him beyond a certain point. We doctors always
try to give dying men their way. It is cruelty to thwart them save to
gain some real advantage. In your grandson’s case there is nothing to
be gained. He is past human skill; but if we can ease his passage by
relieving his mind of any part of its burden, I should not stand in the
way because it might hasten the end by a brief hour or more.”
Saul, lying with closed eyes, his senses preternaturally acute and
sharpened by illness, heard every word the doctor spoke, and a quick
thrill of gratitude and thankfulness ran through him. He lay quite
still when his grandfather returned. He gave no sign of having heard.
He was exhausted to an extent which made any sort of speech or movement
impossible at the moment, and told him even more clearly than the
doctor’s words had done of his close approach to the dark valley. But
his mind was at rest, concentrated upon the one purpose of making his
peace with man, as he had already made it with God. He felt a perfect
confidence that this thing also would be permitted him, and he lay calm
and tranquil, resting and thinking.
He saw his grandfather moving softly about the room, saw him put out
beside the fire a suit of his own (Saul’s) clothes, evidently ready
against a possible emergency. He saw a servant come in with food for
them both, and watched through half-closed eyes while Abner ate his
supper. Then he felt himself made comfortable in bed and fed with
something strong and warm, which gave him an access of strength. He
fell into a light sleep after that, and when he opened his eyes again,
Abner was sleeping soundly in his chair--sleeping that deep sleep of
utter exhaustion which always follows at last on a prolonged vigil.
Saul lay still and watched him, and then a sudden and intense desire
took possession of him. He sat up in bed, and found himself strong
beyond all expectation. A glass of some cordial was standing at the
bedside. He took it and swallowed the potion, and rose to his feet. He
crossed the room softly, still marvelling at the power which had come
to him, and clad himself in the warm garments put out in readiness.
Abner meantime slept on, utterly unconscious of what was passing. To
Saul it all seemed like part of the same wonderful miracle which had
been wrought upon his spirit by the power of the Eternal Spirit of
God. His eyes had been opened at the eleventh hour to see the light;
and now the goodness of God was giving to him just that measure of
physical strength which was needed to accomplish the last desire of his
heart before he should be called away from this earth.
Once dressed, there was no difficulty in finding his way to the room
where Eustace lay. Saul knew something of the castle, and had once
been taken by Eustace himself up the staircase in the servants’ wing,
past the door of this very room, and into the rooms he occupied to
look at some plant under the microscope. He opened the door softly,
and found that the passage was lighted by a lamp. He was able to walk
by supporting one shoulder against the wall and crawling slowly along.
His breath was very short; every few steps he had to pause to pant, and
there were strange sensations as of pressure upon his windpipe; but he
felt that he had strength for what he purposed, and he persevered.
Through the swing door he passed, and into the carpeted corridor of the
main block of building, and here a light was also burning, whilst the
door he remembered to have opened before stood ajar. He paused there a
moment and looked in. The room was empty, and beyond lay the sleeping
chamber, its door half-open also. Pausing again to gather breath, Saul
passed slowly through that door, and found himself in a dim and quiet
chamber, where a man-servant kept a quiet watch in a chair beside the
fire; and upon the bed, his eyes closed and his face quite peaceful,
lay Eustace Marchmont.
But the entrance of this tall, gaunt, spectre-like figure produced an
effect Saul had not calculated upon. The man-servant well knew Saul
Tresithny by sight, and knew that he lay at the point of death in an
adjoining chamber of the castle. Seeing this figure glide noiselessly
through the door and up to the bed, he fully believed he saw the young
fisherman’s ghost, and springing to his feet with a cry of terror, he
fled precipitately from the room, overcome by invincible fear. The cry
awoke Eustace, and the next moment he and Saul Tresithny were looking
into each other’s eyes--almost as men might look who had passed beyond
the realms of this world and had met in the land of spirits.
“Is that you, Saul--in the flesh?” asked Eustace faintly. “I have asked
for you, but never thought to see you again.”
“I have come to ask forgiveness of you,” cried Saul in a choked voice,
sinking to his knees beside the bed, partly through physical weakness,
partly through the abasement of his self-humiliation. “I am dying,
sir; I am glad to die, for I know my sins are forgiven by a merciful
Saviour. But oh! I feel I cannot go without your forgiveness too! I
have done you so terrible an injury. Ah! let me hear you say you can
forgive me even that before I go!”
The voice was choked and strained. Saul’s head sank heavily upon the
bed. Eustace heard the gasping breath, and a hoarse rattle in the
throat, which told its own tale. With a great effort he just lifted his
hand and laid it on the bowed head.
“My poor fellow,” he said, “you have as much to forgive as I. May God
forgive you all your sins, as I forgive all you have done amiss towards
me, and as I pray I may be myself forgiven for such part and lot as I
have had in much of sin that has stained your past life.”
With one last effort Saul raised his head, and saw standing beside him
a shining figure which he took to be one of the angels from heaven.
A wonderful, radiant smile lit up his haggard face, his eyes seemed
to look through and beyond those about him, and with the faint but
rapturous cry--
“My Lord and my God!” he fell prone upon the bed.
Bride, aroused by the cry of the servant, had come in hastily, clad in
her white flowing wrapper, with her hair about her shoulders, and laid
a soft hand upon his head as she said in a very low voice--
“Lord, into Thine Almighty Hands we commend the spirit of this our
brother!” and even as she spoke the words, both she and Eustace knew
that the soul of Saul Tresithny had returned to the God who gave it.
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