A TROUBLED NIGHT
IT was not, however, a good night, as far as Kenneth Fortescue was
concerned, for he found it utterly impossible to sleep. Was it
surprising that this should be the case, after the agitating day that
had gone before it? The startling telegram from home, the suspense
during the journey, the unexpected meeting with his friends in
Birmingham, the sad news on arriving home of his father's illness—the
remembrance of all these kept sleep far away from him.
And then there was the cause of that illness—the ruin which had
befallen all his hopes and prospects. How could he continue in the
army, if his father were correct in saying that all his money was lost?
It would be impossible! He was not an extravagant man; but he knew
that, with the greatest care and economy, he could not live upon his
captain's pay. What, then, could he do? What would become of him? What
future could possibly be in front of him?
Then his thoughts travelled to the mysterious envelope which lay in
the safe in the next room. What would he find when he opened it? What
revelation for him did it contain?
His father had said something about money belonging to himself, which
had been lost with the rest; he had never known that he possessed any.
Could it be money settled on his mother, which reverted to him at her
death? If so, why was he never told of this? Why was it not handed over
to him when he came of age? Could there be wrongdoing on his father's
part of which he as yet knew nothing?
Then more troubled thoughts still distracted him and kept him long
awake. He thought of poor Mrs. Douglas—a widow with a family dependent
upon her—and then of the awful news which he had to break to her—news
which made him ashamed of his own father. What business had he to put
trust money—for surely that insurance money was that in reality—into
such a risky concern as a South American gold mine? How could his
father have been so foolish—he had almost said so wicked; but, inasmuch
as all the old man's own money was invested in the same concern, he
gladly altered the adjective to foolish. How should he ever tell her?
How could he possibly soften down so hard and terrible a blow? What
could he say to let her know how much he felt for her? He would always
look upon that four thousand pounds as a debt that he owed to her and
to her family. If not legally bound to repay her, he felt that morally
he was responsible. Yet how could he possibly do it? He knew not how to
provide for his own wants in the future, much less how to be able to
save so large a sum.
Then he thought of the poor old man, dying in the next room; that he
was dying, he had very little doubt. There was a look in his face which
he had never seen there before, and he knew what that look meant—the
soul was striving to escape from the poor worn-out body. And where was
that soul going? Was his father ready for the great change so close
upon him?
It was only lately that Captain Fortescue had felt the all-importance
of knowing that the soul is safe for Eternity. But his regiment had
been ordered out to the war, and, on the eve of a great battle, he was
resting in his tent when three officers rode past it. They pulled up
close to where he was, and stood still looking at the sunset, which
was a very glorious one that evening. One of them—the eldest of the
three—said as he looked across the valley at the long lines of the
enemy—
"I wonder where we three will be when the sun sets to-morrow evening?"
The man next him laughed, and said lightly, "Who cares? A short life
and a merry one for me!"
"What do you say?" asked the senior officer, turning to the young
lieutenant, who was riding on the other side of him.
As Fortescue lay in his tent, with the door open to the west, he
could see the young officer, whom he had known at Sandhurst, looking
steadfastly at the fast-setting sun; and he could hear him say softly,
almost as if he were speaking to himself—
"Peace, perfect peace; my future all unknown.
Jesus I know, and He is on the Throne."
The next evening came, and the sunset was as fine as the night before,
but the golden rays were streaming down upon a bloody battlefield
covered with the dead and dying. The Major who had asked that question
of his companions was riding across the valley, but he was riding
alone; for his two friends were lying amongst the dead, cold and
still. Fortescue saw him, and he knew that he alone of the three was
left to see the sun go down. And, as he looked, he envied the young
lieutenant who had met death with such calm confidence. Perhaps the
next battlefield might be his own last resting-place. Who knew? And as
he knelt in his tent that night to say his prayers he had asked that
that perfect peace might be his also; and now he, too, could say—
"Jesus I know, and He is on the Throne."
But could his poor old father say that? He was afraid not. He felt that
he ought to speak to him, but it would be very difficult.
The Captain was naturally a very reserved man; he would have found it
extremely difficult to speak to any one on such a subject, but to say
anything of the kind to his old father seemed to him a task which he
dared not undertake. Perhaps he could persuade him to see a clergyman
to-morrow; he could, at any rate, venture to suggest that he should do
so.
And so at last morning dawned, and, thoroughly wearied by the many
troubled thoughts of the night, Captain Fortescue got up and dressed.
But before he went downstairs, he crept into his father's room and
stood by his bed. Watson had gone to the kitchen for something she
wanted, and he found no one in the room. The old man's eyes were
closed, and he thought he was asleep. But he opened his eyes after a
time, and looked at his son.
"Kenneth," he said.
"Yes, father. I came to see how you are."
"Remember your promise."
"I won't forget."
"I'm very ill, Kenneth."
"I'm afraid you are, father. Won't you let me send for the clergyman to
come and see you?"
"No, Kenneth—no. I don't know him. He's only just come here. He did
call once, but I was out."
There were a few minutes' silence after this, and then he said:
"Couldn't you talk to me a bit, Ken? You know more of these things than
I do. I want—I want—"
"You want to know where you are going, father; that's it, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's it, Ken. It's all dark-like, and I've not been what I
ought to ha' been."
"We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have left
undone what we ought to have done, and have done that which we ought
not to have done, and there is no health in us."
"That's it, Ken," said the old man; "that's just it!"
"But the Lord Jesus came to save the lost sheep, father. He will save
you, if you ask Him. He died for sinners, you know."
"Yes, Kenneth, yes; but I don't know how to ask Him. What shall I say?"
"Say this, father—
"'Just as I am without one plea,
But that Thy Blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee,
O Lamb of God, I come.'"
The old man repeated the words after his son, and many and many a time
during the day, as Captain Fortescue sat beside him, he heard him
saying softly—
"O Lamb of God, I come."
Kenneth Fortescue never went to bed that night, he sat holding his
dying father's hand.
Watson did her best to get rid of him, but in vain; he insisted upon
remaining where he was. The old butler also crept into the room, and
sat watching his master from the foot of the bed.
And, just as the first morning light came streaming through the window,
the Captain heard the old man say for the last time—
"O Lamb of God, I come."
And the next minute all was still, and their long watch was ended.