THE SUDDEN CALL.
A VERY unexpected message had come to the Mellors on the day following
Christmas Day. Unfavourable symptoms had shown themselves in Stephen
Mellor, and indicated internal injuries hitherto unsuspected, and the
doctor could not say how things might turn. Anyhow, he was very ill,
and they had better go up.
He was indeed very ill, and Phil and his mother (Rob was too frightened
to go) were simply amazed to see the change that had come over him
since their previous visit, three days before.
"He talks so queerly," Phil whispered, as they stood at his bedside.
"Yes," said the nurse, "he's been light-headed all the day, and that's
a bad sign, you know, to come on now, a week after the accident. It's
certain he's more injured than we thought for. Of course he's been very
drowsy ever since he was brought here, and that looks like mischief to
the brain. But there, we're doing all we can, and maybe he'll take a
turn for the better. Only the doctor thought you ought to know."
But the "turn for the better" did not come, and after two or three days
of only semi-consciousness, alarming symptoms set in, and before wife
or children could obey the hasty call to go to him, Stephen Mellor had
passed into eternity.
Oh, the waking on the other side! oh, the afterward of death! God only
knows the anguish of a soul that has died without hope, without Christ!
Earthly justice he had eluded; earthly punishment he had escaped; but
when God's summons came, and the message went forth, "Thy soul shall
be required of thee," there was no possible delay, and without the
consciousness or power to cry for mercy, the spirit of Stephen Mellor
passed into the presence of the God who made it. Only a fortnight
before he had heard a message of mercy—that God's thoughts toward
him were thoughts of peace, that for such a life as his there was
forgiveness, through the atonement of the Lord Jesus Christ; and truly,
as he left the Mission Hall that Sunday night, he knew that God Himself
was pleading. But he refused the offered mercy, he turned away from the
outstretched hand, and now the day of grace was past, time was over,
eternity had begun.
Thus ended a life that had commenced with bright possibilities, when
Stephen Mellor was clerk in a Manchester warehouse, with a good salary
and a comfortable home. But, not content with his honest earnings,
he was induced by bad companions to try his luck at gambling, and
this seemed such an easy way of making money, until the losses began
to exceed the gains. Then came dishonesty, and Mellor's employer was
robbed to pay the "debts of honour," as he called them, by way of
satisfying his conscience. Forgery followed; the discovery of which
necessitated a hasty and secret flight. And so, pursued by justice,
haunted by bitter memories, covered with disgrace, disowned by
relatives, and surrounded by poverty and shame, for seven years the man
had wandered, barely avoiding detection, and living he hardly knew how;
thus bringing, not only on himself, but on his wife and innocent boys,
dreadful wretchedness and destitution.
But all was over now, and it was with almost a sense of relief that
his wife turned away from the Infirmary and went back to Preece's
Place. No more fear of detection, no more need to support her husband's
falsehoods by her own—and her cheek burned with shame as she thought
of the life of deceit that for his sake she had lived. No more angry
threats or blows, no more cruelty to the boys. All was ended now, and
for the future, she, with Phil and Rob, might know far more of peace
and happiness than for long years before.
But to Phil the thought of his father's death was very terrible; for
though there was no grief at his loss (how could there be?) there was
an awful fear that death had found him wholly unprepared for the great
change. Nay, something more than a fear; a sad certainty, as it seemed,
for the last days were days of unconsciousness, and how could he pray
then? There was only one ray of comfort; he and Rob had been praying
for him, and perhaps God had heard and answered their prayers. But they
could not even do that now, and it seemed so strange the first night
after the father's death, when he and Rob knelt (as always) to say
their evening prayers, not to pray for him.
Rob, through force of habit, was just beginning to do so, when Phil
stopped him.
"It's no use now, Rob, to pray for father! You see he's dead;" and the
lad hesitated, as if hardly knowing what more to say. A kind of shudder
passed through him as he recalled the cold, lifeless form which lay in
the silence of death up at the Infirmary.
"Where do you think father is now, Phil?"
The words came very softly and tremblingly from Rob, who could hardly
realize as yet that the father whom he had always feared was gone for
ever.
"I don't know, Rob; it's very dreadful, but—but—I don't see how he can
be in heaven, because there's nobody there who hasn't been washed in
the blood of Jesus, and who doesn't love Him; and I'm afraid father
didn't do that!"
Rob trembled. "Oh, Phil, I'd rather he was back here, even if he did
thrash us, wouldn't you? It's so dreadful to think that if he isn't in
heaven he must be—" and the child stopped, as if afraid to utter the
dreadful alternative, and clung closer to his brother.
"There, Rob, we won't talk any more about it. But I tell you what,
we'll pray a great deal more for mother. I expect she'll be different
now; for I'm sure father used to make her do lots of things she didn't
want to, and we'll try to be very good and kind to her. Perhaps she
will come up to the Mission Hall with us again, and hear all about
Jesus. And, oh, Rob, if she learns to love Him too, shan't we all be
happy here!"
A brighter prospect rose before the poor lad's eyes, a possibility of
peace and love, ay, perhaps of comfort too; for wasn't he in work now?
and their mother would be more free to do what she could. So, with
bright anticipations and a firm confidence in a Heavenly Father's love
and care, the boys lay down to forget in sleep their sorrows and their
joys.