COMING TO THE RIVER.
“Now I further saw, that between them and the gate was a
river.”—_Pilgrim’s Progress_
“Well, as you please, but I would not do so,” said Mr. Hope, in
conversation with Mr. Ewart in the saloon.
“The doctors gave no hope, and I think that in such cases it is only
right—it is only kind to let the patient know his danger.”
“Your ideas are different to mine: the shock of being told that you are
dying is enough to put out the last spark of life.”
“Not to one who has the faith of Ernest.”
“You would then only hide the truth from a bad man?”
“I would hide it from none; I would act towards others as I should wish
them to act towards me. It is cruel to conceal their state from the
dying; to send them into the presence of their Maker unwarned, perhaps
unprepared.”
“Well, you must break the truth to Ernest yourself, I will not undertake
to do it. You know his feelings better than I do, I never could
understand them at all.”
Bowed down with affliction, yet with sufficient self-command to be calm
and composed in his manner, Mr. Ewart approached the bed-side of Ernest.
“What do the doctors say of me?” asked Fontonore.
“They say that the injuries which you have received are very severe.”
“I thought so—I suffer so much pain. I daresay that it will be long
before I quite recover. But you see,” he added, with a faint smile,
“good comes out of evil in this case. I took advantage of the privilege
of illness, and the claim which your having saved me has given you, and
asked my uncle a favour which he could not refuse me; nor will you, I am
sure, dear Mr. Ewart: you will be tutor at Fontonore again!”
The clergyman pressed in silence the feverish hand held out to him; he
could not at that moment reply.
“We shall be so happy, if I only get well! You do not know how we have
missed you! You will—will you not?—be the pilgrim’s guide again!”
“You have come to a part of your journey, my beloved pupil, in which
God can alone be your guide.” He felt that the deep eyes of Ernest were
riveted upon him; he could not endure to meet their inquiring gaze.
Shading his own with his hand, he continued: “When Christian had passed
through the land of Beulah, and drew near to the celestial city, he saw a
river flowing before him—”
“The river of death!” murmured Ernest, and for some moments there was
profound silence in the room. It was first broken by the voice of the
sufferer.
“Is there no chance of my recovery?”
“I fear none,” faltered the clergyman.
“And how long do the doctors think that this will last?”
“Not many days,” replied Mr. Ewart, in a tone scarcely audible.
Again there was a long solemn silence.
“I thank you for telling me this,” said Ernest at last. “I little thought
that I was so near the end of my pilgrimage—that I was so very near my
rest. I have often wondered,” he added faintly, “how I should meet this
hour—whether in joy, or in trouble and fear. I feel little of either
just now—perhaps because I am weak and in pain—but a quiet trust in my
Saviour, because, however sinful I have been, I know, I feel that I love
Him!”
There are many lying on a sick-bed, who could hardly give a reason for
the hope that is in them—whose feeble minds have scarcely power to grasp
the simplest text—to whom it would be impossible to review their past
lives; but who can yet rest calmly and securely on the thought, “_Lord,
Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I love Thee!_”
After a while, the sufferer spoke again.
“Where is Charley? Why is he not with me?”
“It was feared that his grief might agitate you.”
“Poor dear Charley!” said Ernest with tenderness; “it will be a pleasure
to him now to think that we always have loved one another. But I should
greatly like to see him; I have so much to say to him before we part.”
“I will call him,” said Mr. Ewart, rising.
He found poor Charles weeping at the door.
“You must command yourself, dear boy, for his sake. Ernest has asked to
see you.”
Charles dashed the drops from his eyes, and made a strong effort to be
calm, though the convulsive quivering of his lip showed the intensity of
his feelings. With noiseless step he glided to the bed-side: his brother
received him with a faint smile.
“Heaven orders all things well, Charley,” he whispered; “I always felt
that you were better fitted than I to be the Lord of Fontonore. The time
which we have spent together will seem to you soon like a strange dream
that is past; but you will not forget me, Charley, mine own brother—you
will not forget me?”
Charles hid his face in his hands.
“And you will be kind to some for my sake. Poor Madge! you will not
desert her, nor turn away Ben and Jack?”
“I shall never endure the sight of that boy!” exclaimed Charles, in an
agitated voice. “He has given you nothing but torment, and now has cost a
life ten million times more precious than his own.”
“He may have been saved for better things, and then my life will have
been well bestowed.”
Mr. Ewart left the two brothers alone together, and with a slow, sad
step, proceeded along the corridor, proposing to visit the gardener’s
cottage, to which Jack had now returned.
He met Clementina on the staircase.
“Oh, Mr. Ewart, is it possible—is he really dying?” exclaimed the young
lady in unaffected sorrow: “so young, and with everything to make life
sweet; it is really too dreadful to think of! Does he know the doctor’s
opinion?”
“He knows all, and is perfectly tranquil.”
“What wonderful strength of mind!”
“The LORD is his strength,” replied the clergyman, and passed on.
Many an anxious inquiry after the young lord had Mr. Ewart to answer from
different members of the household, before he reached the gardener’s
cottage. He was desirous to know what effect his own deliverance and
Ernest’s danger would have upon the mind of young Lawless.
He did not see Jack as he entered the cottage, and asked the gardener’s
wife where he was.
“Oh, he’s there on the bed, sir, with his face to the wall. He’s never
moved, nor spoken, nor tasted a morsel, since he heard that the young
lord lay a-dying. I can’t get him to answer a question; he lies there
as still as a stone. I can’t say if he feels it or not, he has such a
strange sullen way.”
Mr. Ewart seated himself close to the boy, who appeared to take no notice
of his presence.
“You are not suffering, I hope, from your fall? Yours has been a
wonderful preservation; but for the generous courage of Lord Fontonore,
you would have been now before the judgment-seat of God.”
Lawless gave no sign that he heard him.
“I have just quitted his sick-room,” continued the clergyman. “He is
quite calm in the prospect of death, for his life has for long been one
preparation for it. The last words that I heard him utter were of you;—he
was recommending you to the kindness of his brother.”
Lawless convulsively clutched his pillow.
“He said,” added Mr. Ewart, “that if you were but saved for better
things, his life would have been well bestowed.”
Jack suddenly half raised himself upon his bed, then dashed himself down
again with frantic violence. “I can’t bear this,” he cried, in a choking
voice. “I wish he would hate me, abuse me, trample upon me; anything
would be better than this!”
Yes, under all the deep crust of selfishness, malice, and pride, lay a
spring of feeling, in the depths of that unconverted heart. That spring
had been reached, the deep buried waters gushed forth, and the clergyman
left the cottage with a faint but precious hope that his loved pupil had
not suffered in vain.