Harry Benton was a successful business man, there was no question about
that. He was not known in the commercial world as a "big" man, and he
could not write out a check for a million dollars and give it to some
charitable institution as some of the multi-millionaires can do, but he
was regarded by all who knew him as a successful business man. He had a
business in Chicago that was thriving if not colossal. From the income
from this business he was able to own and maintain a beautiful and
comfortable home in one of the residential districts of the great city.
It was his pleasure and privilege to give each year a few thousand
dollars to the cause of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Harry was the second son of Jake Benton, the backwoods holiness preacher
of the Ozarks. At the age of twenty-one he had become the husband of Eva
Gray, who was two years younger than he. This union had been a blessed
happy one. If all of Chicago's homes were like that of Harry Benton, it
might well be nicknamed the Paradise of America. Thrice the angel of
blessings had visited this home, decorating it each time with one of
heaven's jewels in the form of a baby. Nolan Benton, the twelve-year-old
boy, had the name of his Grandfather Gray, and he also had all the
religious indications of his Grandfather Benton. Blanche was two years
younger than Nolan. She fell heir to the blue eyes, the ruddy cheeks,
the flaxen hair of her mother. Little Jake, the baby, was five years
old. He inherited his Grandfather Benton's name and his Grandfather
Gray's red hair.
One Sunday morning when this happy family gathered around the breakfast
table, Harry Benton's appetite was absent. He could not eat. He
steadfastly gazed through the east window of the beautiful dining room
into the park which spread itself over several acres of ground just
across the street from his home.
"Harry, dear, why do you not eat?" remarked his wife. Harry Benton
smiled, but as he did so a tear glistened on his cheek.
"For some reason," he answered, "I awoke an hour before day this morning
and memory insisted on taking me on a journey over the past and
carrying me on a ramble through the scenes of my childhood, and as I sit
here the sight of those trees in the park remind me of old Ozark's grand
forests. I like to think of those old scenes, and by the way, wife, come
to think about it, it is three years this month since we were down home
on a visit. It doesn't seem possible that it is so long. We get so
absorbed with our business here in this big wicked city that the years
flit by like dreams and we do not realize how long we have been away. I
should like to take a stroll this morning along the old creek where we
boys used to swim. I'd like to visit the old schoolhouse in the walnut
grove where we used to spend so many idle hours. Three years ago when we
were down there I visited that old schoolhouse. It looked just about
like it did twenty-five or thirty years ago, when you and I were there.
I sat on the old limestone rock beneath the old locust-tree where we
used to play dare base. The old play ground is just the same. There was
the ballground where we used to play 'town ball.' The same old stone was
there that we used for second base."
As Harry Benton thus spoke his wife and children listened intently, and
when the meal was finished and the Bible was brought for the morning
worship, the whole family was in a serious frame of mind. Benton went on
to say, "And when we talk of home scenes, I always think of father and
his godly influence upon my life. As I look across the years, I see
myself an ignorant awkward country boy; but there is one thing for which
I shall always thank my God, and that is that I was blessed with a
Christian father. Throughout the years his saintly life has been a
benediction to me. The most sacred picture that hangs on the wall of my
memory is that of my father with the big family Bible on his lap and all
the children gathered around him and Mother for the worship of his God.
Well do I remember when he used to pray for us, naming us out one by one
and asking God to make us useful men and women. And oh, how he used to
be persecuted by the Mount Olivet people. Well do I remember how one
morning when Father was on his way to milk your father's cows he was met
by Deacon Gramps, who beat him so shamefully. That night in family
worship Father prayed so fervently and asked God to forgive Gramps and
save him from his wicked ways. The impressions I received during those
stirring days never will leave me. I tell you, Eva, it meant something
for Father to stand true as he did, and I think heaven will be
especially sweet to those who have suffered as he has suffered."
When he had left off speaking and the family knelt in prayer, Harry
Benton's voice trembled with emotion as he prayed for all those back
home whom he remembered, and especially for his father.
When the morning chores were done and Harry Benton started to the Full
Salvation Mission, which mission he had superintended and supported for
a number of years, he was met on his front porch by a Western Union
messenger boy, who took from beneath his blue cap a slip of yellow paper
and handed it to him. This is how it read: "Come, Father very low."
Benton telephoned one of his brethren to take charge of the Mission, and
after earnestly beseeching the Lord to spare his father until his
bedside could be reached, he and his wife made hasty arrangements to
start, and were soon speeding across the fertile fields of Illinois.
They crossed the mighty Mississippi, changed trains in St. Louis' big
Union Depot, and after a few hours' ride their train was gliding past
old familiar scenes of bygone days.
"Dobbinsville, Dobbinsville," shouted the porter as he thrust his face
in at the door of the coach. Three short jerks at the signal
cord--swish, swish, swish--back from the engine--t-oot-oot-oot--a sudden
let-up in speed, a screech of the airbrakes, a bang of the door, and the
Texas Canon-Ball made one of its seldom stops at Dobbinsville and Harry
Benton and his family stepped to the platform.
A thirty-minute ride through the country in a neighbor's automobile and
once more in life Harry Benton stepped foot upon the premises of his
childhood. His prayer had been answered. His father seemed to be dying
during the night, but with the coming of morning he revived and regained
consciousness. When Harry and Eva entered the room where his father lay,
the old saint seemed as happy as a child and much rejoiced at seeing
Harry and Eva and their babies, who were the last of a great flock of
sons and sons-in-law and daughters and daughters-in-law and
grandchildren and great-grandchildren to arrive.
"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints." Since
Jake Benton's conversion, more than a quarter of a century previously to
this time, his life had been one continuous sermon--a sermon more
eloquent than any ever preached from a pulpit. But if the sermon of his
life was eloquent, that of his death was more so. According to his
simple philosophy, life was just a sort of lodging-place beside the long
road to eternity, and death, to him, was not a leaving home, but rather
a starting for home.
When he gathered his loved ones about his bedside on the day following
the arrival of Harry and his family, to say goodbye, it was not the
goodbye of one who was entering upon a dark and perilous journey to
parts unknown, but that of one sustained by an unfailing faith that he
was entering upon an abode in the eternal mansion, where he should wait
but a brief period for the coming of those he loved.
Just as the purple shadows of the October evening were lengthening, the
end was drawing near. The hoary patriarch called his children all by
name--Harry and Eva, Joe and his wife, Albert and his wife, Nancy and
her husband, Hannah and her husband, and Hattie, the unmarried daughter
yet at home--and they all gathered in the room where death was to be a
guest. The grandchildren, happy and care-free, unconscious of what life
is and of what death means, were called in from their places of play,
and told that Grandpa was leaving them. The little tots, bless them,
came in and stood around the old-fashioned bedstead all unmindful of the
significance of a meeting of time and eternity. They gathered around and
gazed into the old saint's face, where death and life alternately wrote
their names. As they passed around one by one by the head of the bed,
the old man laid his withered hands upon each little head and pronounced
his blessing. Then he began to talk.
"If this is death," he said, "it is a blessed thing to die. The way has
been long and the road rough, at times, but now it is all over. I have
suffered a few things for Jesus' sake, but how unworthy I have been of
all the love He has shown me. I have only one dying request to make of
my loved ones, and it is the same as my living request has been, that
you all live for God and meet me over there. Oh, I am so happy. How I
love Jesus, and on His bosom I shall rest forever." His voice grew
fainter. "Just one more step and I am there." The loved ones hovered
nearer. A soft white hand was laid upon his brow. It was the hand of
Hattie. Subdued sobs were heard about the room. "Don't weep, dear
children," he faintly murmured: "I am just passing into--I see the
darling's hands--no pale cheeks--how sweet--about my neck--this
Rose--Rose's Savior Papa's Savior too. Let's go--." He was dead--and
blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Deacon of Dobbinsville, by John A. Morrison