THE FRIEND IN NEED.
“Thine own friend, and thy father’s friend, forsake not.”—PROV. xxvii.
10.
There was not a happier mother in the village than Mrs. Peters, nor a
better son than her Robin. She had trained up her child in the way he
should go, and it was now his delight to walk in it; she had not shrunk
from correcting his faults, and he loved her the better for the
correction; she had taught him from the Bible his duty towards his God,
and from the same pages he had learned his duty towards his mother. It
was a pleasant sight on the Sabbath morning, to see them walking up the
little pathway which led to the church—the feeble parent leaning on the
strong, healthy son, who carried her Bible and prayer-book for her. Mrs.
Peters never had the slightest feeling of envy towards those who
appeared above her in the world—she would not have changed places with
any one. “They may have riches, fine houses, broad lands,” she would
say; “but who has a son like mine!”
[Illustration: GOING TO CHURCH.]
On the Sunday afternoon, however, Robin did not accompany his mother to
church. Perhaps you may suppose that, after his hard work all the week,
he thought that he needed a little rest or amusement; that you might
have found him at “the idle corner” of the village, joining in the
sports of younger companions; and that he considered, like too many,
alas! that having given the Sabbath morning to religion, he might do
what he pleased with the rest of the day. Let us follow Robin Peters in
his Sunday pursuits, and see where, after partaking of dinner with his
mother, he bends his willing steps.
[Illustration: ON A VISIT.]
Over the common, through the wood, up the steep hill-side! It matters
not to him that the way is long; that in winter part of the road
scarcely deserves the name of one at all, being almost impassable from
slough and snow. Cheerfully he hastens along, with a light springing
step; sometimes shortening the way with a hymn, or gazing around on the
endless variety of nature, and lifting up his heart to nature’s God!
There is surely something very pleasant that awaits Robin Peters at the
end of his walk, that he always should take it in this one direction;
should never give it up, fair weather or foul; and look so happy while
pursuing his way!
[Illustration: OLD WILL AYLMER.]
He stops at last at the door of a poor little hovel, built partly of
mud, and thatched with straw. The broken panes in the single window have
been patched with paper by Robin’s hand, instead of being, as formerly,
stuffed up with rags; but either way they speak of poverty and want. By
the miserable little fire—which could scarcely be kept up at all, but
for the sticks which Robin has supplied—sits a poor old man, almost bent
double by time, the long hair falling on his wrinkled brow, his hand
trembling, his eye dim with age. But there is a kindling pleasure even
in that dim eye, as he hears a well-known rap at the door; and warm is
the press of that thin, trembling hand, as it returns the kindly grasp
of Robin!
First there are inquiries for the old man’s health, and these take some
time to answer; for it is a relief to the suffering to pour out long
complaints—it is a comfort to them if one kindly ear will listen with
interest and patience. Then the contents of Robin’s pockets are emptied
upon the broken deal box, which serves at once as chest of drawers and
table to the old man, and a seat to the visitors, “few and far between,”
who find their way to the hovel on the hill. The present brought by the
youth varies from week to week. He has little to give, but he always
brings something to eke out old Will Aylmer’s parish allowance:
sometimes it is a little tea from his mother; perhaps a pair of warm
socks, knitted by herself; or a part of his own dinner, if he has
nothing else to bring to the poor and aged friend of his father.
After the depths of the pockets had been duly explored, Robin, seated on
the box, very close to the old man, for Aylmer was extremely hard of
hearing, repeated to him, in a loud tone of voice, as much of the
morning’s sermon as he could remember. He whom age and infirmities kept
from the house of God, thus, from the kindness of a youth, every week
received some portion of spiritual food. But most did he enjoy when
Robin opened the Bible—for, poor as Aylmer was, he was provided with
that—and in the same loud, distinct voice read the blessed words which
the dim eyes of his friend could no longer see.
After the holy book was closed, it was long before Robin found that he
was able to depart, Aylmer liked so much to hear all about his friends
and his neighbours—everything which passed in the village in which the
old man had once lived. It was something for him to think over during
the long, lonely week, to prevent his feeling himself quite shut out
from the living world. And Robin had not only to speak, but to listen;
and this, notwithstanding the deafness of old Aylmer, was perhaps the
harder task of the two. Not only the poor man’s sight, but his memory
also was failing: his mind was growing weak and childish with age, and
his tedious and oft-repeated tales would have wearied out any patience
that was not grounded on Christian love! And so the afternoon of the
Sabbath passed with Robin Peters, and he returned weary but happy to his
home, to enjoy a quiet, holy evening with his mother. He had poured
sweetness into a bitter cup; he had followed the footsteps of his
compassionate Lord; and he had obeyed the precept given in the
Scriptures, _Thine own friend, and thy father’s friend, forsake not._
After what has been written, it is scarcely necessary to add that the
life of Robin was a happy one. At peace with God and at peace with man;
earning his bread by honest industry; in debt to none, in enmity with
none; blessed with friends, cheerful spirits, and excellent health, he
was far happier than many who wear a crown. But though religion can
support the Lord’s people under trials, it does not prevent their having
to undergo them like others, and after several years had been spent in
comfort and peace, a cloud was gathering over the home of Robin.
One Saturday evening he returned from his work complaining of headache
and a pain in his throat. Mrs. Peters concluded that he had taken a
chill, and, advising him to go early to rest, prepared for him some
simple remedy, which she trusted would “set all to rights.” Robin took
what she gave him with thanks, but he seemed strangely silent that
evening, and sat with his brow resting upon his hand, as though
oppressed by a weight in his head. The fond mother grew anxious—who can
help being so whose earthly happiness rests upon _one_? She felt her
son’s hand feverish and hot; she was alarmed by the burning flush on his
cheek, and proposed begging the doctor to call. At first Robin objected
to this: he had hardly ever known sickness in his life, the medical man
lived at some distance, and the night was closing in. In the maladies of
the body—but, oh, how much more in those of the soul!—how foolish and
dangerous a thing is delay!
Another hour passed, and the fever and pain of the sufferer appeared to
increase. Again the mother anxiously proposed to send for the doctor;
and this time Robin made no opposition. “Perhaps it might be as well,”
he faintly said. “I did not like making you uneasy by saying it
before—but there has been a case of scarlet fever up at the farm.”
The words struck like a knife into the mother’s heart! There was not
another moment of delay; she hastily ran out to the door of a neighbour,
and easily found a friend (for it was often remarked that Mrs. Peters
and her son never wanted friends) who would hasten off for the medical
man.
Robin in the meantime retired to his bed, feeling unable to sit up
longer. The symptoms of his disorder soon became more alarming—a scarlet
glow spread over his frame, his pulse beat high, his temples throbbed;
and his mother, in an agony of fear which she could only calm by prayer,
sat watching for the arrival of the doctor.
Dr. Merton had just sat down to a very late dinner with two old
school-fellows of his, whom he had not met for years; and they promised
themselves a very pleasant evening together. “Nothing like old
friendships, and old friends!” he said gaily, as the covers were removed
from the steaming dishes, and they saw before them a comfortable repast,
which the late hour and a twenty miles’ ride had given all a hearty
appetite to enjoy. “Nothing like old friends, old stories, old
recollections!—we shall seem to live our school-days over again, and
feel ourselves boys once more!”
There was a ring at the door-bell, a very loud ring—there was impatience
and haste in the sound of it. “I hope that’s nothing to disturb our
sociable evening,” said Dr. Merton, who, having filled the plates of
both his friends, was just placing a slice of roast beef on his own. He
paused, with the carving knife and fork still in his hand, as his
servant entered the room.
“Please, sir, here’s Tom Grange come in haste from Redburn, and he says
that Robin Peters is taken very ill, and his mother begs to see you
directly.”
The knife and fork were laid down, perhaps a little unwillingly, and the
doctor arose from his chair.
“Why, Merton, you’re not going now!” cried one of his companions.
“Just wait till after dinner,” said the other.
“Excuse me; Mrs. Peters is not the woman to send me such a message
without sufficient cause. I have known her and her son too for many a
long year, and they shall not find me fail them in their trouble.”
So the doctor put on his great-coat, took down his hat, begged his
friends to do justice to the good cheer provided, and left them, if I
must own it, with no small regret, to sally forth in that cold wintry
night, tired and hungry as he was. He walked fast, both to save time and
to keep himself warm; but his pace would have been even more rapid had
he known the agonizing anxiety, increasing every minute, with which his
arrival was expected. The door, as he reached it, was opened by the
widow, who looked upon him with the breathless earnestness of one who
expects to hear a sentence of life or death.
A very short examination of the sufferer enabled the doctor to pronounce
that his case was one of decided scarlet fever. Some one must sit up
with him and watch him that night; a messenger should instantly be sent
with the remedies required; the doctor would himself call the first
thing the next morning.
“You do not think my boy—_very_ ill, sir?” faltered the mother, folding
her hands, and fixing her eyes upon Dr. Merton with an expression of
much grief, which touched the kind man to the heart.
“He is ill, I cannot deny that; but keep a good heart, he has youth and
a fine constitution in his favour; and I need not remind you, my friend,
to apply for help to Him in whose hands are the issues of life and of
death.”
Oh, how often that night, that long, fearful night, did prayer arise
from the widow’s low-roofed cottage! It seemed as though the darkness
would never be passed. At the end of every weary hour the night-breeze
brought the sound of the church-clock to the watcher’s ear, while the
stars still trembled in the sky. The wick of the candle burned long and
low, the last spark in the grate had died out, and there lay the
sufferer, so helpless, so still, that it seemed as though his soul were
in like manner silently, surely passing from its dwelling of clay!
But with the return of morning’s light the fever rose, and the malady
took its more terrible form. Robin knew nothing of what was passing
around him; even his much-loved mother he recognized no more; his mind
became full of strange, wild fancies, the delirious dreams of fever. His
mother listened in anguish to his ravings; but a deeper grief was spared
her—even when reason no longer guided his lips, those lips uttered not a
word that could raise a blush on the cheek of his mother. Robin’s
conversation had been pure in the days of his health—he had kept his
mouth as with a bridle; and the habit of a life was seen even now when
he lay at the gates of death! His mother heard his unconscious
prayers—words from Scripture instinctively spoken; and while her hot
tears gushed more freely forth, she was thankful from the depths of her
soul. There was no death-bed repentance here for a life devoted to sin;
Robin had not left the work of faith and love for the dregs of age or
the languor of a sick-bed. She felt that if Heaven were pleased to take
him from her now, _he was safe_, safe in the care of One who loved him
better than even she did; though consciousness might never return to
him, though he might never again breathe on earth one connected prayer,
_he was safe_, in time and in eternity, through the merits of the
Saviour whom he had loved.
“O sir! I am so thankful to see you!” exclaimed Mrs. Peters, as, pale
and worn with watching, she received the doctor at an early hour of the
morning. “My poor boy is very feverish and restless indeed—he does not
know me!”—the tears rolled down her cheek as she spoke; “I am scarcely
able to make him keep in his bed!”
“You must have assistance,” said Dr. Merton, walking up to his patient.
Words broke from Robin’s lips as he approached him—words rather gasped
forth than spoken: “I must go—he expects me; indeed I must go—my own
friend and my father’s friend.” He made an effort to rise, but sank back
exhausted on the pillow.
“There is something on his mind,” observed the doctor.
“It is that he is accustomed to visit a poor old friend, Will Aylmer,
who lives in the hovel on the hill.”
“Will Aylmer!” repeated the doctor, as though the name were familiar to
him. And well might it be so, for the feeble old man had in years long
past served as gardener to his father; and many a time had the little
Merton received flowers from his hand, or been carried in his arms,
which then were sturdy and strong.
Dr. Merton now examined his patient, and the poor mother read from the
doctor’s looks, rather than from his words, that he entertained little
hope of her son’s recovery. As he quitted that home of sorrow, Dr.
Merton sighed from mingling feelings.
“I fear that poor Robin is near his last home,” thought he; “and yet why
should I _fear_, since I believe that for him it will be but an earlier
enjoyment of bliss! He has shamed me, that poor peasant boy! Even in his
delirium he is thinking of another; he is struggling to rise from the
bed of death to go on his wonted visit of kindness to his own and his
father’s friend! and I, blessed with means so much larger than his, have
for thirty long years neglected, nay forgotten, the old faithful servant
of my family! I shall look upon poor Will Aylmer as a legacy from Robin.
He has done what he could for his friend during life; and by his dying
words—if it please God that he should die—he shall have done yet more
for the old man.”
For three days Robin continued in an alarming state, and his mother
never closed an eye in sleep. Love and fear seemed to give her weak
frame strength to support any amount of fatigue; or, as she said, it was
the goodness of the Almighty that held her up through her bitter trial.
On the fourth morning Robin sank into a deep sleep. She gazed on his
features, pale and death-like as they were; for the red flush of fever
had all passed away, and he lay motionless, silent, but with that
peaceful look which often remains when the spirit has departed. A
terrible doubt flashed upon the mother’s mind, a doubt whether all were
not over! She approaches her son with a step noiseless as the dew, the
light feather of a bird in her hand. She holds it near to his lips—his
breath has moved it!—no! that was but the trembling of her fingers! She
lays it on the pillow, her heart throbbing fast—is that the morning
breeze that so lightly stirs the down? No; thank God, he still
breathes!—he still lives!
Mrs. Peters sank upon her knees, buried her face in her hands, and once
more implored Him who had compassion on the desolate widow of Nain, to
save her beloved son; “But, O Lord,” she added, with an almost bursting
heart, “if it be Thy will to remove him to a happier world, give me
grace not to murmur beneath the rod, but to say humbly, ‘Thy will be
done.’”
As she rose from her knees she turned her eyes towards her son, and they
met his, calmly, lovingly fixed upon her, with an expression, oh how
different from that which they had worn during the feverish excitement
of delirium! “You were praying for me,” he said, very faintly; “and the
Lord has answered your prayer!” The deep joy of that moment would have
overpowered the mother, had it not been tempered by a fear that this
improvement might be but as the last flash of a dying lamp, and that the
danger was not yet over.
But from that hour Robin’s recovery rapidly progressed, and the fever
never returned. He was weak, indeed, for many a long day; his vigorous
arm had lost all its powers—he had to be fed and supported like a child.
But it was a delight to Mrs. Peters to do everything for him, and to
watch his gradual improvement in strength. Nor, poor as she was, did she
ever know want while her son was unable to work. All the neighbourhood
seemed pleased to do something for Robin—to help him who had been so
ready to help others. The squire’s lady sent wine and meat from her own
table; the clergyman’s wife brought him strong broth; the farmer, his
master, supplied him with bacon and eggs; and many a neighbour who had
little to give yet joyfully gave of that little.
[Illustration: SEEKING THE LORD.]
“How good every one is to me!” exclaimed Robin, as a parcel from the
grocer’s was opened before him on the first day that he was able to quit
his bed. “I only wish that I could send some of this to Will Aylmer; I
am afraid that he has missed me while I was ill.”
“Oh, he has been looked after,” replied Mrs. Peters with a smile: her
care-worn face was becoming quite bright again.
“Who has taken care of him?” inquired Robin.
“I must not tell you, my son; you are to hear all from the old man’s own
lips.”
“I am afraid that it will be very long before I am strong enough to
visit him;—how glad I shall be to see him again!”
Two or three days after this, a bright warm sun tempted the invalid to
take advantage of the doctor’s permission, and try a little walk in the
open air. Leaning on the arm of his thankful, happy mother, Robin again
crossed that threshold which it once seemed so likely that he would only
pass in his coffin. It was a sweet morning in the early spring, and oh,
how delightful to him who had been confined on the couch of fever was
the sunshine that lighted up the face of nature, the sight of the woods
with their light mantle of green, the blue sky dappled with fleecy
clouds; even the crocus and the snowdrop in his mother’s little garden
seemed to speak of joy and hope; and pleasant was the feeling of the
balmy breeze that played upon his pale, sunken cheek.
“The common air, the earth, the skies,
To him were opening paradise!”
Robin lifted up his heart in silent thanksgiving, and in prayer that the
life which the Almighty had preserved might be always devoted to His
service.
“Do you feel strong enough, my son, to walk as far as that cottage
yonder?” inquired Mrs. Peters.
“I think that, with your arm, I might reach even the tree beyond.”
“Then, suppose that we pay a visit to old Aylmer!”
Robin laughed aloud at the idea. “Why, my dear mother, neither you nor I
have strength to go one quarter of that distance; I fear that I must
delay that visit for some time to come.”
“There is nothing like trying,” replied Mrs. Peters gaily; and they
proceeded a little way together.
“Is it not strange?—I am weary already,” said the youth.
“Then we will rest in this cottage for a little.”
“It was empty before my illness; if there is any one in it now, a
patient just recovered from the scarlet fever might not be made very
welcome.”
“Oh, you will be made welcome here, I can answer for that,” cried Mrs.
Peters; and at that moment who should come tottering from the door, joy
overspreading his aged face, his eyes glistening with tears of pleasure
and affection, but Robin’s poor old friend! He grasped the youth’s hand
in both his own, and blessed God fervently for letting him see the face
of his “dear boy” once more!
“But how is this?” exclaimed Robin, with joyful surprise.
The deaf man rather read the question in Robin’s eyes than caught the
sense of it from words which he scarcely could hear. “Dr. Merton—bless
him!—has brought me here, and has promised to care for the poor old man:
and he bade me tell you”—Aylmer paused, and pressed his hand upon his
wrinkled forehead, for his powers of memory were almost gone—“he bade me
tell you that these comforts I owed to you. I can’t recollect all that
he said, but I know very well that he ended with the words, ‘_Thine own
friend, and thy father’s friend, forsake not._’”
Forsake not thou thy father’s friend,
Forsake not thou thine own,
Though care and grief his form may bow,
And frosts of age are on his brow,
And like a leafless willow now
He stands on earth alone.
Forsake not thou thy father’s friend,
Revere the hoary head.
Thou mayst have little to bestow
To lessen want or lighten woe,
But who does not the comfort know
Which one kind word can shed!
Forsake not thou thy father’s friend,—
So, when thy strength is o’er,
Mayst thou ne’er want a friend in need,
Thy age to cheer, thy footsteps lead;
And He who is “a Friend indeed”
Be thine for evermore!
[Illustration: [church front]]