THE DAY OF TRIAL AND DELIVERANCE.
AFTER a night of broken, uneasy sleep, poor Percy awoke at daybreak
with a terrible consciousness that something dreadful was about to
happen. The curtains of his window had been left unclosed, and the
light had doubtlessly awoke him. His first feeling was one of anger and
impatience at the carelessness of Deborah, which had thus shortened his
only time of forgetfulness; but Percy repressed the angry emotion, and,
raising himself a little on his bed, gazed forth on the scene before
him.
It was not on the tanner's yard that he looked, though he knew that
it lay beneath. The height of this room raised him above the sights
and the sounds that annoyed him below. A wide, beautiful prospect
lay before him: green meadows, surrounded by hedgerows, where cattle
quietly pastured; fields of corn gently bending to the breeze of morn,
and lovely wooded hills in the distance, yet lovelier from the white
mist resting above them. The blue sky was dotted with rosy clouds,
golden streaks illumined the east, where bright widening rays streamed
up the sky, harbingers of the sun about to rise. Nature preached her
sweet lesson to the heart of Percy.
"Oh! Faith should raise my soul," thought he, "above the sorrows and
fears of this passing life! How fair a prospect lies before me, weak
and unworthy as I am! The trials of earth will soon be exchanged for
the endless glories of heaven; the Word of Truth, like those rays in
the east, tell of the coming of the Sun of Righteousness, the Saviour
whom, not seeing, yet I love! Lord! Strengthen, comfort, bless Thy
child—I would lie still in Thy merciful hands—do unto me even as Thou
wilt!" The heavy eyes of the sufferer closed, and gentle sleep came to
him again.
It was not a sleep undisturbed by dreams; pain and fear seemed to haunt
him still! He dreamt that, like Anne Ascue, he was stretched upon
the rack, called to glorify God in the fires! Familiar objects mixed
strangely in the scene—in the stern executioner, he recognised his
surgeon, even the rack took the shape of the low couch upon which he
had suffered so long. "Confess—retract!" rung in his ears, a feeling
of terror oppressed his spirit, he struggled, he cried out in an agony
of fear. When suddenly a light seemed to stream upon him from above—he
raised his eyes and beheld a bright angel form, with white glittering
wings folded behind him; a wreath of many-coloured beams encircled his
brow, shedding additional lustre on the heavenly countenance, radiant
with the glories of immortality! The deep calm gaze of those eyes that
had never been dimmed by mortal sorrow or fear infused secret rapture
and strength in the soul. With one hand the angel held forth a palm,
with the other he pointed upwards to the skies! Percy awoke from that
strange dream, praise on his lips, and peace in his heart.
Percy's uncle came to see him before leaving the house, and was struck
by finding his nephew less depressed than usual.
"Percy, you are bearing up bravely," said he, in a kinder manner than
was usual with him. "I shall make a point of being back before two—keep
a good heart, my boy!"
A warmer glow of gratitude than he had ever felt before towards his
uncle arose in the bosom of Percy. Deborah seemed to lay the table
for breakfast with a more kindly air, and brought him the foot-rest
without being asked. Even these trifles gave a feeling of solace to the
sufferer; for the love of God shed abroad in our hearts sweetens all
our relations with our fellow-creatures.
Hour passed after hour in that quiet house; and though tried by a
feeling of sickening expectation, and rehearsing a hundred times in
his mind the terrible scene of the operation—with his Bible in his
hand, Percy was not wretched. His uncle returned earlier than he had
expected; and long before two o'clock had struck, Willy Gore entered
the room. Nor did he enter alone—with his mild blue eye and his silvery
hair, Uncle Presgrave was close behind him.
"How kind, how very kind you are, to gather round me thus!" cried
Percy. "One never feels the value of friends so much as in times of
sickness and trial."
"That, like every other blessing, is from above," said Mr. Presgrave,
seating himself by the couch of Percy. "I did not know that you were
such a sufferer; and sickness at home and my own infirmities have long
prevented me from paying distant visits, or I should not have allowed
so much time to pass without coming to see my young friend."
In quiet converse the time rolled on; a stranger would not have guessed
that a trial so severe was impending over one of the party. Percy,
indeed, turned pale when the clock struck two, and often uneasily
glanced at the door; from his room being situated at the back of the
house, he could not hear the surgeon's carriage arrive. Conversation
became difficult and forced, Willy constantly caught himself watching
the clock, and the long black hand stole from number to number, till a
single stroke told the half-hour.
"I wonder," said Mr. Manners, with a somewhat indignant air, "that Dr.
Graves keeps the poor boy waiting so long. The expectation is worse
than the thing itself."
At this moment the sound of a loud ring was heard; and as Deborah was
waiting in the hall, it was instantly succeeded by that of a quick,
firm step, and the door of the sitting-room was thrown open.
Percy turned very cold, but had hardly time to lift up his heart in the
brief prayer, "Lord I help me!" when he heard his uncle exclaim, "Why,
it is not Dr. Graves, after all!"
The respite brought the blood again to the boy's cheek, and Willy felt
relief almost equal to his own.
"It is our good Dr. Prince," he whispered to Percy, "who is now
attending my aunt."
"I regret the occasion of my coming here," said the doctor, after
bowing to the two gentlemen, "but I received a letter not an hour ago,
informing me of the sudden illness of Dr. Graves, which renders it
quite impossible for him to keep his appointment here, and has induced
him—" here the medical man handed a letter to the attorney—"to request
me to call and see his patient!"
Mr. Manners looked annoyed and a little perplexed. "Dr. Graves was to
have performed a serious operation, and I am afraid of the effects of
delay."
"Would it not be well," suggested Mr. Presgrave, "for Dr. Prince, of
whose skill I have long had reason to entertain the highest opinion, to
look at the foot of my young friend?"
"Certainly, there cannot be the slightest objection to that," replied
Mr. Manners; so poor Percy's bandages were carefully removed, and the
doctor examined the injured place, asking various questions as he did
so.
"Did Dr. Graves consider amputation necessary here?" said he at last,
in a tone which made hope suddenly spring up in Percy's heart.
"Indispensable," Mr. Manners briefly replied.
"I should wait a little longer myself," observed the doctor. "Try
stronger nourishment, and a little change of air—this house lies low,"
he added, glancing at the tanner's yard. "I think that time and care
might work wonders for him. I have known worse cases than this where
the cure was complete."
Percy could not speak—Willy was breathless with delight—both looked at
the attorney, and their hearts beat fast.
"If such is your decided opinion," replied Mr. Manners, "why, let no
step be taken at present."
"And might I suggest," said Mr. Presgrave, with benevolent eagerness,
"that if change of air be recommended for Percy, most welcome would
he be to Ivy Lodge. I know that I speak the sentiments of my niece;
indeed, it was but this morning that she expressed a wish to have him
with her. I need not say we would watch over him as though he were our
own."
Willy clapped his hands with delight at the idea.
"Would such an arrangement be advisable, Dr. Prince?" said the
attorney. "I must place him in your hands."
"Nothing could be better," the doctor replied. "I could attend him at
the Lodge with far greater convenience, and the air there is peculiarly
favourable to his recovery. My carriage is waiting at the door—should
you wish it, I would carry him there at once. It is all in my way."
Percy had borne up firmly under fear and pain, but this joy was too
much for him to bear. Tears, which would not be restrained, overflowed
his eyes, and while arrangements were made, he poured out thanksgivings
to his God from the very depths of his soul. "'The Lord is my strength
and my shield; my heart trusted in Him, and I am helped: therefore my
heart greatly rejoiceth; and with my song wilt I praise Him.'"
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Once again I will pass over an interval of some months, and my reader
and I find ourselves once more at Ivy Lodge. A white mantle of snow is
over the ground, the air is sharp and keen, and the trees wave their
bare branches in the cold blast. But from the house comes the sound of
merry voices and of laughter, and the red light from the windows tells
of the warm cheering blaze within! We may enter without knocking, and
find ourselves unseen spectators of a Christmas feast.
There sits Mrs. Gore at the head of her low, table, her gentle features
lighted up with a mother's joy, as she looks down on the lines of young
bright faces.
All appears cheerful, contented, and happy, even sickly Mrs. Presgrave
wears a Christmas smile. But amongst those present none had a lighter,
a more joyous heart than Percy, who, his crutches now laid for ever
aside, feels more deeply the blessing of health than those who have
never known its loss!
And now there is a general hush in the conversation; the merry faces
assume a grave expression, as Mr. Presgrave rises to return thanks. He
pauses a moment to look round on the dear circle before him; his eye is
moist with feeling, and deep and earnest is the tone of his voice as he
utters the words of mingled praise and prayer—"'For these and all Thy
other mercies, O Lord! Make us truly thankful! Amen!"
THE END.