THE MASTER'S DEATHBED.
When the master at last consented to leave the sight of his old dwelling
burning into blackened heaps, he seemed to care nothing where he might
be taken. He was without a home, and almost without a friend. It was not
accident merely, but the long-provoked hatred of his people, that had
driven him from the old chambers and the old roof which had sheltered
him for so many years, and where all the habits and memories of his life
centred. Miss Anne had not been long enough at Botfield to form
friendships on her own account, except among the poor and ignorant
people on her uncle's works; and she accepted most thankfully the offer
of the doctor from Longville to give them a refuge in his house. No
sooner had they arrived there than it was discovered that the master was
struck with paralysis, brought on by the shock of the fire, and all the
terrifying circumstances attending it. He was carried at once to a
bedroom, and from that time Miss Anne had been fully occupied in nursing
him.
He had seemed to be getting better the last day or two, and his power of
speech had returned, though he spoke but rarely; only following Miss
Anne's movements with earnest eyes, and hardly suffering her to leave
him, even for necessary rest and refreshment. All that afternoon he had
been tossing his restless head from side to side, uttering deep, low
groans, and murmuring now and then to himself words which Miss Anne
could not understand. She looked white and ill herself, as if her
strength were nearly exhausted; but after the doctor had been in, and,
feeling the master's pulse, shook his head solemnly, she would not
consent to leave his bedside for any length of time.
'How long?' she whispered, going with the doctor to the outside of the
door.
'Not more than twenty-four hours,' was the answer.
'Will he be conscious all the time?' she asked again.
'I cannot tell certainly,' replied the doctor, 'but most probably not.'
Only twenty-four hours! One day of swiftly-passing time, and then the
eternal future! One more sun-setting, and one more sun-rising, and then
everlasting night, or eternal day! For a minute Miss Anne leaned against
the doorway, with a fainting spirit. There was so much to do, and so
short a space for doing anything. All the real business of the whole
life had to be crowded into these few hours, if possible. As she entered
the room, her uncle's eyes met hers with a glance of unspeakable
anguish, and he called her in a trembling tone to her side.
'I heard,' he whispered. 'Anne, what must be done now?'
'Oh, uncle,' she said, 'have I not told you often, that "Christ Jesus
came into the world to save sinners"? There is no limit with God; with
him one day is as a thousand years, and He gives you still a day to make
your peace with Him.'
'There is no peace for my soul with God,' he answered; 'I've been at
enmity with Him all my life; and will He receive me at the last moment?
He is too just, too righteous, Anne. I'll not insult Him by offering Him
my soul now. You asked me once, "What shall it profit a man if he shall
gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" Mine is lost--lost, and
that without remedy. This gold is a millstone about my neck.'
'Uncle,' she said, commanding her voice with a great effort, 'the thief
upon the cross beside our Lord had a shorter time than you, for he was
to die at sunset that day; yet he repented and believed in the crucified
Saviour, who was able to pardon him. Christ is still waiting to forgive;
He is stretching out His arms to receive you. Only look at Him with the
same penitence and faith that the dying thief felt.'
'Nay,' groaned the dying man, 'he could show his faith by confessing Him
before all those who were crucifying the Lord, and it was a glory to the
Saviour to forgive him then. But what glory would it be to pardon me on
this death-bed, where I can do nothing for Him? No; I can do
nothing--nothing! All these years I could have worked for God; but now I
can do nothing!'
'Uncle,' said Miss Anne, 'our Lord was asked by some, "What shall we do,
that we might work the works of God?" and He answered them, "This is the
work of God, that ye believe on Him whom He hath sent." Oh, that is all!
Believe on Him, and He will forgive you; and all the angels in heaven
will glorify Him for His mercy.'
'Anne,' he answered, fixing on her a look of despair, 'I cannot. My
heart is hard and heavy; I remember when it used to feel and care about
these things; but it is dead now, and my soul is lost for ever. Anne,
even if Jesus is willing to pardon me, I cannot believe in forgiveness.'
Miss Anne sank down by the bedside, unable to answer him, save by a
prayer, half aloud, to God for His mercy to be shown to him, if it were
possible! He lay there, helpless and hopeless, tossing to and fro upon
the pillows. At last he spoke again, in a sharp, clear, energetic tone.
'Anne, be quick!' he said; 'find me my will among those papers. Perhaps
if I could do something, I might be able to believe.'
He watched her with impatient eagerness as she turned over the precious
parcel of papers which he had rescued from the fire. There were many
documents and writings belonging to the property he had gathered
together, and it was some time before she could find the will. The
master tried to take it from her, but in vain; his right hand was
powerless.
'Oh, I forgot!' he cried despairingly; 'this hand is useless, and I
cannot alter it now. God will not let me undo the mischief I have done.
Anne, I have left Fern's Hollow away from you to my brother Thomas, lest
you should restore it to Stephen; and now I can do nothing! Oh, misery,
misery! The robbery and murder of the fatherless children rest upon my
soul. Send quickly, Anne, send for Stephen Fern.'
Miss Anne sent a messenger to hasten Stephen; and after that the master
lay perfectly still, with closed eyes, as if he were treasuring up the
little strength remaining to him. The last sunset was over, and the
night-lamp was lighted once more; while Miss Anne sat beside him
watching, in an agony of prayer to God. There was no sound to be heard,
for every one in the house knew that the old man was dying, and they
kept a profound quietness throughout all the rooms. He had taken no
notice of anything since he asked for Stephen; but when a light rap was
heard at the door he opened his eyes, and turned his grey head round
anxiously to see whether he was come.
It was Stephen. He stood within the doorway, not liking to enter
farther, but looking straight forward at the master with a very pale and
sorrowful face, upon which there was no trace of triumph or hatred. Miss
Anne gazed earnestly at him, but she did not speak; she would not place
herself between him and his dying enemy now.
'Come here, Stephen,' said the master, in a voice of hopeless agony.
'When little Nan was lying dead, you said you would wait, and see what
God could do to me. Come near, and hear, and see. Death is nothing, boy;
it will be only a glory to you to die. But God is letting loose His
terrors upon me; He is mocking at my soul, and laughing at my calamity.
Soon, soon I shall be in eternity, without hope, and without God.'
'Oh, master, master,' exclaimed Stephen, 'there is a time yet for our
Father to forgive thee! It doesn't take long to forgive! It didn't take
even me long to forgive; and oh, how quickly God can do it if you'll
only ask Him!'
'Do you forgive me?' asked the master, in astonishment.
'Ah,' he cried, 'I forgave thee long since, directly after I was ill. It
was God who helped me; and wouldn't He rather forgive thee Himself? Oh,
He loves thee! He taught me how to love thee; and could He do that if He
didn't love thee His own self?'
'If I could only believe in being forgiven!' said the dying man.
'Oh, believe it, dear master! See, I am here; I have forgiven thee, and
I do love thee. Little Nan can never come back, and yet I love thee, and
forgive thee from my very heart. Will not Jesus much more forgive thee?'
'Pray for me, Stephen. Kneel down there, and pray aloud,' he said; and
his eyelids closed feebly, and his restless head lay still, as if he had
no more power to move it.
'I cannot,' answered Stephen; 'I'm only a poor lad, and I don't know how
to do it up loud. Miss Anne will pray for thee.'
'If you have forgiven me, pray to God for me,' murmured the master,
opening his eyes again with a look of deep entreaty. Over Stephen's pale
face a smile was kindling, a smile of pure, intense love and faith, and
the light in his pitying eyes met the master's dying gaze with a gleam
of strengthening hope. He clasped the cold hand in both his own, and,
kneeling down beside him, he prayed from his very soul, 'Lord, lay not
this sin to his charge.'
He could say no more; and Miss Anne, who knelt by him, was silent,
except that one sob burst from her lips. The master stirred no more, but
lay still, with his numb and paralyzed hand in Stephen's clasp; but in a
few minutes he uttered these words, in a tone of mingled entreaty and
assertion, 'God be merciful to me a sinner!'
That was all. An hour or two afterwards it was known throughout
Longville, and the news was on the way to Botfield, that the master of
Botfield works was dead.