THE VOICE OF GOD
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
--_The Ancient Mariner._
For a year I sailed the Mediterranean as a common seaman. I thought,
or rather, I hoped, that by hard work and mixing in the society of men
who had borne something of the brunt of life, besides visiting
different towns at which we had to call along the coast, I should
banish from my mind what became more and more terrible to me. It was a
vain hope.
At the end of the year I despaired of finding happiness or peace again.
"There is no such thing as forgiveness of sins!" I said, "and life is
but a bitter mockery."
Ofttimes I wondered what had become of them at home. At night time
especially I found myself thinking of Ruth and how she bore her
terrible trials, and this led me to wonder what had become of
Wilfred--had he ever been found, and, if so, had I been suspected of
his death? Naturally, Bill Tregargus would think of me; but would he
tell of his meeting with me? Then again, would Ruth feel it her duty
to denounce me as a murderer, even though I had saved her from the most
horrible fate imaginable? I knew how great was her sense of right; I
knew, too, how much she had loved me, and I did not know what course
she would take.
But never one ray of light, or hope, or comfort came in the thick
darkness. Sometimes I was tempted to drown my troubles in drink, but I
remembered my father's death, and refrained from doing so. Again I was
tempted to seek forgetfulness in what was unworthy, but I remembered
Ruth and was saved from that.
One day, about a year after I had left Salambo, the vessel in which I
was sailing arrived at Smyrna, where we had to stay some days. Towards
evening we were at liberty to go into the town, and I as usual strolled
away alone. I had not gone far, when, lying on the side of the street,
I saw a little crippled child who had apparently lost its way, or was
in some trouble, for it was sobbing bitterly. I came close and lifted
the child to its feet, and as I did so caught sight of its face. It
was a little girl about five years old. She was by no means pretty, on
the contrary, her face was almost evil, and for a moment I felt like
passing on without taking further notice, when the prayer which had
constantly been on my lips of late came to my mind. Hitherto I had
received no answer to it, but now I felt that I loved this little
crippled, ugly child.
In my constant visits to this coast I had picked up a smattering of
Greek, so I spoke to the little maiden, and asked her where she lived,
and without hesitation she told me. With a strange feeling in my heart
I took her in my arms, and carried her in the direction of her home.
As I walked on I met some of my crew, who laughed to see me with my
strange burden, but I did not mind, nay, rather, I rejoiced because of
what I was able to do. And all the while I continued to breathe this
prayer, "Lord, help me to love."
We reached her home at length. A miserable place it was, and I found
out that the little maiden had no father. He had died a few months
before, but she had a brother and sister, both younger than herself,
who lived with their mother. I did not stay long, although I felt a
strange feeling of pity for the poor desolate ones, but I left some
money with them and walked away alone.
As I did so I remembered the words I had heard often in our old church.
"Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these My little
ones, ye have done it unto Me." "Unto Me"--unto whom? I called to
mind that they were the words of our Lord, and I asked myself what it
meant. "Ye have done it unto Me." I repeated again and again. "How
have I done it unto the Lord?"
One day while I had been in Barcelona, I had gone into a church, and
had made confession of my sins to a priest. I remembered that Salambo
was a Catholic, and I wondered if by making confession peace would come
to my heart. The priest had told me that I must forgive every one, and
do penance. But I was not able to forgive; as for penance, it seemed
to me that no man could suffer worse penance than I had already
suffered. Besides, I remembered that the priest was an enemy to the
faith which I had been taught to believe, and so, perhaps, prejudice
hindered him from helping me.
His words returned to me that night, however, and I asked myself for
the hundredth time how it was possible for me to forgive Wilfred.
"He is dead, and I have killed him!" I said to myself, "and yet I
cannot forgive him. I hate him still. He has robbed me of everything
I hold dear. How can I forgive him? How can I find peace?" Then, as
if in answer to my cry, came the words, "Come unto Me all ye that
labour, and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
I do not know how, but the message of our Lord had a new meaning. I
had heard it read a hundred times without ever thinking of its meaning,
but now my heart throbbed with a new hope as I thought of it, "Come
unto Me, Come unto Me, and I will give you rest." I kept repeating the
passage.
"Lord, how can I come!" I cried, "and how can'st Thou hear my voice,
the voice of a murderer?" and then, as if in answer to my cry, I seemed
to hear the words, "Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast
out!"
That night for the first time for years I truly prayed. I prayed for
light, for penitence, for forgiveness. Ay, I did come to Christ as a
poor penitent wayward sinner, and even as I prayed, I caught myself
thinking of my brother Wilfred. Without realising what I was doing, I
remembered some of our boyish freaks. I thought of the happy days we
had spent together and of the times we had knelt side by side and
prayed; and then, I know not how, I realised that the hatred I had felt
for Wilfred was gone. God had answered my prayer; I had learned to
love, and to love my enemy.
Do not imagine that my burden was gone when I felt this. The memory of
that terrible night became more vivid; but I was changed. I was not
the man I was on the night when I madly wrestled with my brother. God
had answered my prayer, and in doing so He had changed me.
I went back to the vessel a new man, with new feelings, new desires,
new aspirations.
Night came on again, and still the vessel remained in the harbour at
Smyrna. I sat on the deck alone, looking sometimes at the lights of
the town, and again at the moonlit sea, still longing and praying for
rest. Hour after hour I remained, until my heart grew so sad that I
began to realise a misery as great almost as that I had known before
the hatred I had for my brother was taken away.
"Oh, God, what shall I do?" I cried at length.
What was it that answered me? A voice from Heaven, or was it my own
heart? All I know is that, sounding from I know not where, I heard the
words, "Go home."
I felt I could not do this. I could not bear to go back to the scenes
of my misery and sin. I should be ever seeing the dead face of my
brother; there would be less rest for me there than here. Nor it would
not be safe to do so. Perhaps even now the officers of the law were
in-- But I would not think of that.
All through the night I struggled and prayed, but ever in answer came
the same dread message:
"Go home. Confess your sins."
At length strength came; at length the battle was fought. I made up my
mind to go home, to give myself up to the officers of the law as my
brother's murderer, and in a moment the burden was gone, and I was a
free man.
I will not try to describe with what feverish anxiety I made my way
back to England. I only know that some secret power seemed to be
urging me back, and although I felt I was going to my death, I was glad
when I landed in Falmouth harbour.
Once on my native soil my love for life became strong, and I had to
fight my battle over again, or I should have had to do so if I had
allowed myself time to think of it; but I stifled all thoughts of
escape, and hurried on to my old home.
When I arrived within a mile or so of Trewinion, I paused, and began to
ponder as to what course would be best. Should I go to the village
constable, Philip Pinch? I knew him well as a lad, and had seen him
when I had been home the year before. Or should I go straight to the
old house on the cliff, and there, before my mother and servants,
confess my sins.
The desire to see the old place was so strong that I determined to take
the latter course. If I surrendered myself to Philip Pinch I should be
taken at once to the lock-up, and thence to Bodmin gaol, while if I
went home I should have one more sight of the old rooms which I had not
seen for more than eleven years.
And so, with fast-beating heart and limbs trembling, I hurried onward.
Feverishly I opened the postern door which admitted me into the grounds
surrounding the house, and then, with a pain at my heart which no words
can describe, I went up to the tower entrance and rang the bell.