HIS eyes opened slowly upon the unfamiliar room. The shaft of sunlight slanting in from the west shone upon a comfortable apartment, far larger and loftier than anything to which he had been accustomed. The window was larger, the fireplace was wider, and there was a clear fire of coal burning in the grate, very different from the peat and driftwood fires to which he had been long accustomed. The only familiar object in the room was the figure of his grandfather, bending over the big Bible on the table, as he had been so used to see it from childhood, when he awakened from sleep in the early hours of the night, and looked about him to know where he was.
For a moment a dreamy wonderment came over him. He asked himself whether he had not been dreaming a long, long troubled dream of manhood and strife, and whether, after all, he were not a little child again, living in his grandfather’s cottage, happy in his games upon the shore, and looking eagerly forward to the time when he should be a man and could follow the fortunes of fishermen and smugglers, or have a big garden to care for like Abner.
But this dreamy condition did not last long. There was a bowed look about Abner, and his hair was altogether too white for him to be identified with the Abner of twenty years back. Saul raised his own hand and looked at it curiously. It was shrunken to skin and bone, but a great hand still, with indications of vanished power and strength. The dark sombre eyes roved round and round the room. Memory was awakening, the mists of fever and delirium were passing away. Suddenly Saul seemed to see as in a panorama the whole map of his past life rolled out before him. It was written in characters of fire upon the bare walls of the room. Everywhere he looked he saw his wild and evil deeds depicted. Why was it that they looked black and hideous to him now, when hitherto he had gloried in them—gloated over them? He saw, last of all, the doomed vessel bearing straight down upon the cruel rocks. And now he seemed to see a face on board that vessel—the face of one he loved—the face of the man who had held out his hand in friendship, when (as he believed) all the world beside had turned its back upon him. He saw the face of this friend looking at him with a deep reproach in the eyes, and a sudden groan of anguish broke from Saul’s lips as he stretched out his hands to stay the course of the doomed vessel.
At the sound of that groan Abner rose quickly and came forward to the bedside. The ray of dying daylight was fading already, and the shadow of the winter’s evening closing in; and yet in the dimness about the bed, Abner thought he saw something new in Saul’s face.
“Saul, my lad,” he said gently, “do you know me?”
“Tu be sure I du,” answered Saul, and wondered why his voice sounded so distant and hollow. “What’s the matter, grandfather?”
“You have been in a fever for many days, my lad, and didn’t know anybody about yu. What is it, boy? Don’t excite yourself. Yu must be kept quite quiet.”
Saul’s face was changing every moment, turning from red to pale and pale to red. He was struggling with emotion and a rush of recollection. For a moment Abner’s voice and presence had arrested the course of his memories; but now they came surging back.
“Grandfather, tell me,” he cried, struggling to sit up and then sinking back in his weakness, “what happened?—how did I get out of the water? Where is Mr. Marchmont?”
“Here in the castle. You were brought in together. They could not loose your clasp upon him for a long time.”
“And where is he? Is he alive?”
“Yes—alive, and like to live.”
Saul suddenly pressed his hands together and broke into wild weeping.
“Thank God! thank God!” he cried, his whole frame shaken with sobs. “Grandfather, pray for me—you know I never learned to pray for myself—at least I have well-nigh forgotten now. But down on your knees and thank God for that for me! May be He will hear yu. It must have been He that saved him; for the devil was at my ear all the while prompting me to let him die.”
Abner was already on his knees, with a thanksgiving of his own to offer. He had prayed too much and too earnestly, both in secret and before his fellow-men, to lack words now in this hour of intense gratitude and thanksgiving. In rugged yet not ill-chosen words he lifted up his voice and gave thanks to God for His great and unspeakable mercies in giving back this one life from the destruction that had come upon all besides; and in permitting the very man whose sin had brought about this fearful thing to be His instrument for the salvation of the life of his friend. He pleaded for mercy for the sinner with an impassioned eloquence which bespoke a spirit deeply moved. He brought before the Lord the sins and shortcomings of this erring man, now stretched on a bed of sickness, and besought that the cleansing blood of Christ might wash them all away. He pleaded for Saul as he never could have pleaded for himself. He brought together all those eternal promises of mercy which are to the sinner as the anchor and stay of the soul in the deep and bitter waters of remorse. He pleaded with his Redeemer for the soul of his grandson with a fervour only inspired by a love and a faith too deep to be daunted by any considerations as to the weight of iniquity to be pardoned, or the lack of faith in the one thus prayed for. And Saul, lying helpless and tempest-tossed, listened to this pleading, and found his tears bursting forth again. He had seen before all the black and crushing iniquity of his own past record, but now was brought before his eyes a picture of the infinite and ineffable love of a dying Saviour—the Lord of Glory crucified for him—bearing his sins upon the Cross of shame—stretching out His wounded hands and bidding him come to that Cross and lay down his burden there. It was too much for Saul, softened as he was by the sense that God had already answered his prayer even in the midst of his sin and wickedness, and had given him the one petition, the only one he ever remembered to have offered. The whole conception of such divine mercy was too much—it broke down all his pride and reserve and sullen defiance—it broke his heart and made it as the heart of a little child. His tears gushed forth. He clasped his hands, and lifted them in supplication to his Saviour. He could not have found words for his own guilt, but he could follow the earnest words of the grandfather, whose simple piety he had hitherto held in a species of lofty contempt. And in that still evening hour, with the dying day about them, and the shadow of death hovering as it were in the very air above them (for Saul was dying, although he knew it not yet; and Abner knew that his hours were numbered, though he might linger for a day or two yet), the erring soul turned in penitence and love to the Saviour in Whose death lay the only hope of pardon, and in Whose resurrection-life the only hope of that life immortal beyond the grave, beyond the power of the second death, and found at last peace and rest, in spite of all the blackness of past sin.
For when the Saviour’s Blood has washed away the sin, the blackness can no longer remain. Humble penitence and contrite love remain, but the misery and despair are taken away. He bears the grief and carries the sorrow; He takes the shame, the curse, the wrath of a holy and a just God. It was a thought almost too overwhelming for Saul to bear. It broke his heart and humbled him to the very dust. But he no longer fought against the infinite love—no longer hardened his heart against the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of comfort and sanctification. He had felt the blessedness of the pardoning love, and he yearned for the guiding light that should show him how he might direct his steps for the time that remained to him.
Of that time he had not yet thought. Those hours had been too crowded with extreme emotion. He had passed through a crisis of spiritual existence which made all earthly things dwarf into insignificance. It was only when the hour of midnight tolled forth, and he recollected that a new day had begun for him, that he first folded his hands in prayer, lifting up his heart to God in thanksgiving for the light which was now in his soul, and then turning his gaze upon Abner, who had never moved from his side all this while, asked softly—
“What day is it?”
“Sunday, my lad. A new day and a new week. I little thought upon the last Sunday what the Lord had in store for me for this. The Lord’s Day, my lad—the Lord’s Day. That’s what I love to call it. May we have grace to keep it to His glory. Saul, my lad, you have no fears now?”
“Fears of what, grandfather?”
“Fears about the Lord’s love—about the forgiveness He has granted yu?”
A singular radiance came over Saul’s face.
“No—I can’t doubt it. It’s too wonderful to be understood. But I can feel it right through me. I’ve no fear.”
“And would you fear, my boy, if you had to see Him face to face—if you should be called upon to meet Him—if He should come this very night to gather to Himself those that wait for His coming?”
Saul looked earnestly into the old man’s face. He knew something of Abner’s belief and hope, though it was now several years since he had spoken of it in his hearing. As a youth his grandfather, who was slowly gathering up fragments from the prophetic Scriptures, and, in common with many others who met for prayer and meditation, beginning to awaken to a belief in the sudden and instantaneous appearing of the Lord on earth, had striven to convince the boy of the truth of this belief, and awaken within his soul that burning love and longing after the coming and kingdom of the Lord which was stealing upon his own. Saul, however, had not been responsive. To him it was all old wives’ fables, and he had sometimes mocked and sometimes sneered, so that Abner had soon ceased to urge him, trusting that faith would come at last through the mercy of God, though not by the will of man. Nevertheless the foundations had been laid, inasmuch as Saul now understood what his grandfather meant, and could even recall the words of Scriptural promise in which Christ had spoken of His return, and the Apostles had exhorted the early churches to remain steadfast in the hope of it. And as these memories crowded in upon his mind and brain now—now that the love of the Lord had awakened within him, and he was only longing for some means of showing that love and abasing himself at His feet in penitence and adoration—the memory of these words and promises came back to him charged with a wonderful beauty and significance, and clasping his hands together he replied in a choked voice—
“It is too wonderful and beautiful to be believed, but He has said it. If He were to come to-night, grandfather, I dare scarcely to hope that such an one as I should be counted worthy to be caught away to meet Him in the air; but if I might but look upon His glorified face it would be enough. He would know how much I love Him, and how I hate myself and my vile life. I should see Him—I should be able to look up to Him and say—‘My Lord and my God!’ I do not even ask more!”
Abner was silent for a moment, and then said in a voice that quivered with the intensity of his emotion—
“And, my lad, if the Lord delays His own coming, but calls to you to meet Him in another way, would you be afraid?”
Saul looked at him quickly, and read in a moment all that was in Abner’s soul.
“Do you mean that I shall die?” he asked.
There was silence for a moment, and then Abner spoke—
“It may not be to-night, but it must be soon. The doctor says you strained your heart so terrible hard that night, and there was something amiss with you before. I don’t rightly understand his words, but you’ve never been the same since that fever, and when you were knocked down by the horses they did you a mischief you’ve never got over. That night on the wreck was the last straw, as folks say. There’s something broke and hurt past mending. You won’t have no pain, but things can’t go on long. You’ll not be long before you see your Saviour, my lad; for I’m very sure we go to be with Him, even though we may not share His glory till the blessed day of the Resurrection.”
A strange awe fell upon Saul. His eyes looked straight at Abner with an expression the latter could hardly fathom. Was it fear? Was it joy? Was it triumph? He did not know, but Saul’s next words gave him the clue.
“It is goodness past belief—I can’t understand it!”
“What, my boy?”
“Why, that the Lord should take me to Himself, when He might have left me to a life of misery and degradation in a far-off land with criminals and evil-doers, or sent me to the scaffold, as I was nearly sent before. After such a life as I’ve led, to take me away to His beautiful land of rest. It’s too much—it’s too much! I don’t know how to thank Him aright. Grandfather, get down upon your knees again and tell Him—though He knows it, to be sure—that for love of Him I’m willing to live that life of misery, or die the shameful death I’ve deserved, and led others to, I fear. Let it be only as He wills, but to be taken away from it all to be with Him seems more blessedness and goodness than I can rightly understand.”
Tears were running down Abner’s face. His voice was broken by sobs.
“Oh, my boy! my boy! if that’s how you feel, I’ve no fears for you. That’s the feeling we should all strive after. Whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: so that, living or dying, we are the Lord’s. If it’s so with thee, my boy, there’s nought else to wish for thee. The peace that passes all understanding will be with thee to the end. Oh, bless the Lord! thank the Lord! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”
For many minutes there was in that chamber of death such a sense of joy and peace as was indeed a foretaste of the everlasting peace of God. Saul lay and looked out before him through the casement, through which a very young moon was just glinting. It was a strange thought that before that moon waned his body would be lying stiff and cold beneath the churchyard sod. But there was no fear in Saul’s mind. Fear had never been a friend to him, and now the perfect love of his crucified and ascended Lord had driven out all fear. Yet even with the prospect of that wondrous change to pass upon him, Saul’s thoughts were not all of himself. He listened to all there was to know of the men he had lured and tempted to this great crime, and heaved a sigh of relief to hear that the magistrates had themselves dealt with the cases of the younger men—men some of them little more than lads, who had plainly been led away by their associates, and had had a lesson they would not be likely to forget. Only six had been committed for trial, and these were all men of bad character and reckless lives. Their fate might likely be a hard one, but they were to have counsel to defend them, and stress was to be laid upon the action of Saul in the matter, and the part he had taken in urging the crime upon them. Saul made a full confession of all his share to Abner that night, and made him promise to attend the trial and repeat this before the judges if possible. It might militate in their favour perhaps, and Saul directed that his boat and all that he had should be sold and given to the wives of the two men out of the six who were married; and having settled all this with his grandfather, he felt his mind relieved of a part of its burden, and lay quiet and exhausted for some time.
He had fallen into a doze when Abner aroused him to take food, and looking up quickly he asked—
“Where are we now? I don’t know this place.”
“It’s a room in the castle—in the servants’ block,” answered Abner. “I told yu they could not get your clasp loosened from Mr. Marchmont’s neck. They had tu bring yu both here, and then the doctor would not let yu be taken away—not even so far as my cottage. Yu were brought here, and yu’ve had the same care and attention as Mr. Marchmont himself. The doctor went to and fro betwixt yu all that night, and has been three and four times a day tu see yu ever since.”
A little flicker passed over Saul’s face. He remembered, as a thing long since past, his old hatred of the class above him. Now he could only feel love for all men—a natural outcome of the intense and burning love for his Lord which was filling all his heart.
“If I could only see him once more!” he said softly.
“See what?”
“Mr. Marchmont.”
But Abner shook his head, and such an expression of gravity came over his face that Saul cried out quickly—
“What is it? Yu said he was doin’ well!”
“Yes—that is what we heard at first. It is true tu—so far as it goes. When we feared he would die, it seemed everything to know that his life was spared; but after that came terrible bad news tu. His life is safe—the doctor says he will live years and years—to be an old man like enough; but it’s doubtful whether he will ever walk again. He’s been hurt in the back, and is what folks call half paralysed. He’s got the feelin’s in his limbs, but no power. He lies on his back, and there he’ll lie for years. He may get better very slowly, they say. A great doctor from London has been down, and says with his strength and youth he may bit by bit get back his strength and power; but anyhow it’ll be a question of years; and meantime there he’ll lie like a log, and have to be tended and cared for like a baby.”
Saul put his hand before his eyes and Abner stopped short, realising that perhaps he had said too much, and that what had grown familiar to him during these past days had come on Saul as a shock.
And indeed it might well do so; for if any one in so different a position in life could estimate the terrible death-in-life of such a fate for one with all Eustace’s enthusiasm and ardent thirst for active work, Saul Tresithny could; for Eustace had talked with him as man to man, and had told him of his personal aims and ambitions and purposes as a man of his class seldom does to one in a sphere so entirely different.
“Crippled for life—perhaps! Crippled through my crime! O my God, can there be forgiveness for this? Ah! yes—His Blood washes away all sin. But my punishment seems greater than I can bear!”
He lay still for a few moments and then half rose up in bed.
“I must see him—I must! I must ask his pardon on my knees. If my Saviour has pardoned my guilt, I must yet ask pardon of him whom I have so grievously wronged. Grandfather, help me!—I must go to him. I cannot die till I have seen him once again!”
In great perplexity and distress, Abner strove to reason with the excited patient, and great was his relief when the doctor appeared suddenly upon the scene.
Inquiring what all the commotion was about, and learning that Saul had recovered his senses, but had grown excited in his desire to see Mr. Marchmont once more, he thrust out his under lip and regarded the young man intently, his finger upon his patient’s wrist all the while. Then he spoke to him quietly and soothingly.
“I will let you see him to-morrow, if possible,” he said kindly. “I understand your feeling; but to-night you must be content to wait and gather a little strength. Mr. Marchmont is sleeping, and had better not be disturbed; but if you sleep too, the hours will soon pass. To-morrow I will do what I can to gratify you,” and having quieted Saul and administered a soothing draught, he drew Abner with him outside the door.
“Can he really do it?” asked the old man wonderingly. “I thought he was like to die at any sudden movement or exertion.”
“Yes, that is true; but there are cases where repose of mind does more than rest of body. Saul is so near to the gates of death that it matters little what he does or does not do. How the heart’s action keeps up at all in the present condition of the organ I do not know; but the end cannot be far off. If he is bent on this I shall not thwart him beyond a certain point. He may have forgotten by the morning; but if not, we must see what we can do to get him there. The distance is very short—only a few steps along this corridor, and through the swing door, and you are close to Mr. Marchmont’s room. I think the exertion of movement will try him less than the tossing and restlessness of unfulfilled expectation and desire. Let him have his night in peace, if possible. But if the desire should grow too strong upon him, let him have his way. It cannot do more than hasten the inevitable end by a brief span. I am not sure whether his strength will not desert him at the first attempt to move, and he may give it up of his own free will; but do not thwart him beyond a certain point. We doctors always try to give dying men their way. It is cruelty to thwart them save to gain some real advantage. In your grandson’s case there is nothing to be gained. He is past human skill; but if we can ease his passage by relieving his mind of any part of its burden, I should not stand in the way because it might hasten the end by a brief hour or more.”
Saul, lying with closed eyes, his senses preternaturally acute and sharpened by illness, heard every word the doctor spoke, and a quick thrill of gratitude and thankfulness ran through him. He lay quite still when his grandfather returned. He gave no sign of having heard. He was exhausted to an extent which made any sort of speech or movement impossible at the moment, and told him even more clearly than the doctor’s words had done of his close approach to the dark valley. But his mind was at rest, concentrated upon the one purpose of making his peace with man, as he had already made it with God. He felt a perfect confidence that this thing also would be permitted him, and he lay calm and tranquil, resting and thinking.
He saw his grandfather moving softly about the room, saw him put out beside the fire a suit of his own (Saul’s) clothes, evidently ready against a possible emergency. He saw a servant come in with food for them both, and watched through half-closed eyes while Abner ate his supper. Then he felt himself made comfortable in bed and fed with something strong and warm, which gave him an access of strength. He fell into a light sleep after that, and when he opened his eyes again, Abner was sleeping soundly in his chair—sleeping that deep sleep of utter exhaustion which always follows at last on a prolonged vigil.
Saul lay still and watched him, and then a sudden and intense desire took possession of him. He sat up in bed, and found himself strong beyond all expectation. A glass of some cordial was standing at the bedside. He took it and swallowed the potion, and rose to his feet. He crossed the room softly, still marvelling at the power which had come to him, and clad himself in the warm garments put out in readiness. Abner meantime slept on, utterly unconscious of what was passing. To Saul it all seemed like part of the same wonderful miracle which had been wrought upon his spirit by the power of the Eternal Spirit of God. His eyes had been opened at the eleventh hour to see the light; and now the goodness of God was giving to him just that measure of physical strength which was needed to accomplish the last desire of his heart before he should be called away from this earth.
Once dressed, there was no difficulty in finding his way to the room where Eustace lay. Saul knew something of the castle, and had once been taken by Eustace himself up the staircase in the servants’ wing, past the door of this very room, and into the rooms he occupied to look at some plant under the microscope. He opened the door softly, and found that the passage was lighted by a lamp. He was able to walk by supporting one shoulder against the wall and crawling slowly along. His breath was very short; every few steps he had to pause to pant, and there were strange sensations as of pressure upon his windpipe; but he felt that he had strength for what he purposed, and he persevered.
Through the swing door he passed, and into the carpeted corridor of the main block of building, and here a light was also burning, whilst the door he remembered to have opened before stood ajar. He paused there a moment and looked in. The room was empty, and beyond lay the sleeping chamber, its door half-open also. Pausing again to gather breath, Saul passed slowly through that door, and found himself in a dim and quiet chamber, where a man-servant kept a quiet watch in a chair beside the fire; and upon the bed, his eyes closed and his face quite peaceful, lay Eustace Marchmont.
But the entrance of this tall, gaunt, spectre-like figure produced an effect Saul had not calculated upon. The man-servant well knew Saul Tresithny by sight, and knew that he lay at the point of death in an adjoining chamber of the castle. Seeing this figure glide noiselessly through the door and up to the bed, he fully believed he saw the young fisherman’s ghost, and springing to his feet with a cry of terror, he fled precipitately from the room, overcome by invincible fear. The cry awoke Eustace, and the next moment he and Saul Tresithny were looking into each other’s eyes—almost as men might look who had passed beyond the realms of this world and had met in the land of spirits.
“Is that you, Saul—in the flesh?” asked Eustace faintly. “I have asked for you, but never thought to see you again.”
“I have come to ask forgiveness of you,” cried Saul in a choked voice, sinking to his knees beside the bed, partly through physical weakness, partly through the abasement of his self-humiliation. “I am dying, sir; I am glad to die, for I know my sins are forgiven by a merciful Saviour. But oh! I feel I cannot go without your forgiveness too! I have done you so terrible an injury. Ah! let me hear you say you can forgive me even that before I go!”
The voice was choked and strained. Saul’s head sank heavily upon the bed. Eustace heard the gasping breath, and a hoarse rattle in the throat, which told its own tale. With a great effort he just lifted his hand and laid it on the bowed head.
“My poor fellow,” he said, “you have as much to forgive as I. May God forgive you all your sins, as I forgive all you have done amiss towards me, and as I pray I may be myself forgiven for such part and lot as I have had in much of sin that has stained your past life.”
With one last effort Saul raised his head, and saw standing beside him a shining figure which he took to be one of the angels from heaven. A wonderful, radiant smile lit up his haggard face, his eyes seemed to look through and beyond those about him, and with the faint but rapturous cry—
“My Lord and my God!” he fell prone upon the bed.
Bride, aroused by the cry of the servant, had come in hastily, clad in her white flowing wrapper, with her hair about her shoulders, and laid a soft hand upon his head as she said in a very low voice—
“Lord, into Thine Almighty Hands we commend the spirit of this our brother!” and even as she spoke the words, both she and Eustace knew that the soul of Saul Tresithny had returned to the God who gave it.