“No,” said the young man confidently, “Christ says not. If you have heard the word of Christ and believe that the Father sent Him to die for you, you are saved. The question of a believer’s sins was settled once for all on the cross, where our Lord Jesus Christ received in His own breast the judgment that was our due. The believer cannot come into judgment for the reason that Christ was judged in our stead. It is true that believers shall appear before Christ to be rewarded for the way they have lived the Christian life after they believed, but that has nothing to do with our sins.”
“But don’t I have to do anything?”
“Just believe.”
The troubled eyes searched his face.
“Please show me how! Quick! The time is getting so short.”
“Look!” said Seagrave, holding out his little Testament. “Suppose I tell you I want to give you this.”
Her eyes were on him eagerly.
“Would you believe me?”
She nodded.
“Then what would you have to do to get it?”
“Just take it?” she answered wonderingly.
“Then just take what Jesus offers, full salvation,” he answered, smiling. “Will you do it?”
“Oh, I will,” she said with the tone of a drowning person catching at a rope flung to him.
“Then we will tell Him so.”
The young man was down upon his knees now talking to God. Such a prayer! Constance, as she stood at one side, her tears flowing, marveled at the way it brought the little hospital room straight into the presence of God. And Doris was introduced to her Savior and handed over into loving care, like a lost and frightened guest who had wandered away from the mansion to which she had been invited; no, like a child of the household who had been long alienated from her Father’s home. Pleading the claim of God’s great promises, pleading the death of Christ on the cross, and His shed blood, Doris was put beyond the shadow of a doubt into safety and security.
Constance watched her friend’s face change from terror into strange, sweet peace, and then heard to her amazement Doris’s voice, quavering with weakness, yet not frightened anymore: “Oh God, I do believe; please forgive me and take me home.”
And then she opened her eyes and said softly, her voice suddenly so weak it could hardly be heard, “Now I can go. Goodbye.” Her eyes closed gently, and she drew a soft little breath of a sigh.
The doctor and nurse who had come in unnoticed hurried up. They touched her wrist, listened for her heartbeats, but she was gone!
“She is at Home with Christ!” said Seagrave softly. “Isn’t it blessed that it does not take time to know God?” And he drew Constance gently from the room.
Chapter 9
Seagrave took Constance out into the cool evening air, and the stirring of a little breeze revived her. Afterward she remembered how strange it seemed to see the campus stretching away among the trees just as it always had done. Doris was dead and the world was going on just the same! You could even hear the chorus of an old college song from one of the more distant dormitories. They did not know yet that Doris was gone from it all forever. Constance’s head whirled, and she stepped uncertainly.
She was conscious of a strong arm that upheld her, and then Seagrave drew her down to a bench under the trees.
“Rest a minute,” he said. “You have been under a heavy strain. Did you have your dinner?”
“Dinner?” She looked up vaguely, hardly aware of the time of day. “Why, no,” she said slowly and then roused to the situation. “And you? You could not have had time to eat. How wonderful of you to come right away! But I don’t understand yet how you got here so soon.”
“I have a friend who flies,” he explained. “I just happened to catch him on the telephone as he was starting out for Boston—that is, if anything on this earth just happens. I don’t believe it does. If I had waited to come on the train I would not have been here in time.”
“She was just staying alive for your coming,” said Constance, weeping now quietly. “You don’t know what terror she was in!”
He let her talk about it a minute or two, judging that it would help her to get adjusted to things, and then he said quietly: “Now, where shall I take you? Would there be someplace nearby where we could go and get a bite to eat together, or would you rather go and lie down and let me send something to your room?”
“Oh, no!” said Constance, shuddering to remember how empty that room would be now with Doris gone and all Doris’s pretty trifles thrown around, her books, her shoes, the hat she did not wear. She caught her breath at the thought. “I will go with you!” she said determinedly. “There is a little tearoom. It will be quiet at this hour, I think. It is not far. They don’t have much but chicken sandwiches and hot soup and ice cream, but that will do, won’t it?”
“It sounds fine,” said Seagrave, giving her a grave smile and helping her to rise.
They walked across the campus arm in arm like old friends, and he managed it so that his strong arm supported her, and she was glad, for she felt inexpressibly weary.
The tearoom was a tiny, old-fashioned house across the street from the campus, kept by a little old lady in quaint attire, and the food was delicious. Sitting and talking while they ate, Constance felt somehow comforted and strengthened.
But suddenly, just when they had almost finished eating, Constance put her face down into her hands and shuddered then looked up apologetically, her face white and drawn with anguish.
“Oh,” she said, “you must excuse me! You’ve been so kind. I oughtn’t to give way to my feelings. But it all came over me just now unbearably. It seems so awful to think she is dead!”
“But she isn’t dead!” said Seagrave triumphantly.
Constance gave him a strange, wondering look.
“What do you call it?” she asked in a kind of hopeless tone as if she were humoring some theological whim. “Do you think she is merely asleep?”
“Her body is asleep, yes, asleep in Jesus. It is said in the Bible of believers who die that they ‘sleep in Jesus,’ though I have read that that phrase might be better translated ‘them also who have been put to sleep by Jesus.’ Just as a mother takes her tired, fretful, suffering child and quietly soothes it to sleep, so the Lord Jesus puts His beloved people to sleep. And the time will come when He will raise them up again, when He comes for His own. But it is only her body that is asleep and has to be laid aside for a time. Her spirit is not there. I think we saw it go, did we not?”
Constance gave him another wondering, half-comprehending look as she recalled the look on the face of Doris as she drew her last breath.
“Where?” She half formed the words. “You think she is—somewhere, now? You think she is conscious?”
“I do. I know she is. She certainly accepted Christ as her Savior, and we have Christ’s own words that such go immediately to be with Him. He promised even the thief on the cross who begged for mercy, ‘Today shalt thou be with me in Paradise.’ And we have several passages where Christ Himself made it plain that those who have departed to be with Him are conscious, even conscious of some things which go on in this world. We are told that there is joy in heaven over one sinner who repents.”
Constance watched him, fascinated with great wistful eyes, and was silent thinking for a moment. Then she said, “Oh, but it will all be so strange there for her. Nobody there she knows!” And she shuddered again and struggled with her tears.
Seagrave looked at her pityingly.
“Do you think the little newborn baby is lonely and frightened in this world when it looks up into the face of its loving mother? And you must remember that your friend is in the arms of a loving Savior. His love will not let her be lonely.”
The girl sat watching him as he spoke, her face full of longing.
“It all sounds strange,” she wailed. “I wish I could see it that way, but I can’t. I never heard anybody talk that way before. All I can feel is that she is dead. Gone! Done forever!
That’s what she and I have been taught and have believed for years.”
“But surely you do not think that she believes that now? Surely you saw the change in her face when she accepted salvation?”
“Yes,” admitted Constance doubtfully, “it was wonderful. But I can’t explain it. I can’t understand it!”
“Can you understand a rose when it blooms? Can you explain where life comes from? ‘The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.’ You cannot explain it nor understand it until you have experienced it. After that you need no explanation.”
She was plainly bewildered over that, and after an instant drew a long breath and sighed deeply, returning to the gloom of death that hung over her like a pall.
“But it is so terrible to think of never seeing her again,” she began again. “Even if what you say is true that there is a life somewhere hereafter, it will be a long, long time, ages perhaps, before the resurrection day, if there is a resurrection. And one has to die first and lie in the grave.” She caught her breath and buried her face in her hands again with another of those long, sorrowful shudders that were like suppressed sobs.
“Not necessarily,” was the quiet answer.
“Not—necessarily?” She looked up, astonished. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that the Lord may come first, before you die, and bring her with Him. That’s our precious hope. The word of comfort for believers. And it looks very much as if that coming may not be far off.”
“Coming? What can you mean? You mean we all may die soon?” Her eyes were wide with dread.
“No, I mean the Lord may come for His church, His bride, and the promise is that He will also bring with Him ‘them that sleep in Jesus.’ That takes in your friend, I am sure.”
“But I don’t understand. You mean Jesus is coming back with all the dead people who have died, to live here again? I never heard of such a thing.”
“No, not that. Listen. Don’t you know the Lord Jesus just before He was crucified told His disciples that He was going away and that He would come back again for His own? Don’t you know that when He ascended into heaven in a cloud, angels told his watching disciples that this same Jesus would also come in like manner, as they had seen Him depart? Don’t you know that Paul wrote about it?”
Constance slowly shook her head.
“I don’t know anything about it. I’ve heard some of those things read in church, of course, but I never supposed anybody took any of those things literally. I’m sure none of my friends do.”
“Listen, then, these are the words that were meant for comfort at just such a time as this: ‘But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him…. For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. Wherefore comfort one another with these words.’”
Seagrave’s voice was very clear and tender as he recited these wonderful words, and Constance could not help being thrilled by them.
“And you believe that is all literally true?” she asked. “And that it may happen anytime?”
“Anytime now. I would like to go into it all more deeply with you someday if you are interested. But meantime, you are very tired. You have been through a terrific strain and should have rest. I wish you could just rest your heart down on that blessed hope of the true believer and take comfort.”
Constance looked up through a veil of tears that she could not seem to control and tried to smile.
“You have been very kind,” she said in an unsteady voice. “Sometime, when I get beyond this awful thing, I’m going to be appalled at myself, I know, for daring to call an utter stranger all these hundreds of miles to a task like this. I know there will never be any way to repay you. Money couldn’t do it. But I just couldn’t let her go out frightened into the darkness alone without any comfort or hope!”
“Of course not,” he said. “You honored me by calling upon me, and I shall never cease to be thankful that I had the privilege of leading her to the Savior. Now please don’t ever again suggest any obligation on your part.”
“Well,” confessed Constance, “I’m grateful to you on my own account. I’m sure I don’t know how I’d have lived through that awful hour without you. And there wasn’t another soul around here except the old janitor who would have understood how to help.” Then she told him of the little Testament the janitor had offered in her need.
His eyes lighted as she told her story.
“God has more children here and there than we realize,” he said. “I presume if you had only known where to ask, there were others, too, who would have been glad to point the way of life.” And then suddenly he glanced at his watch.
“I’m sorry,” he said in surprise at the time, “but unless I can be of further service to you, I’ll have to be hurrying away. My friend starts back in a little over an hour, and it will take me all of that to get back to the airfield if I’m going with him. And I really ought to go unless there is some pressing reason. Is there anything more I could do to help here?”
“Oh, no,” said Constance, wondering why she had such a lost feeling at the thought of his going, “you must go right away, of course. I’ve kept you far too long already. And there isn’t anything more to do now, of course. The college will look after everything.”
Then she remembered her responsibility in bringing him so far.
“But I’ve made you a lot of expense,” she hastened to say. “Of course I’ll see to that. If you’ll come over to the dormitory and wait in the reception room just a minute, I can give you enough to cover it. I just drew some money out of the bank this afternoon.” She was embarrassed saying this, but remembering the shabby trousers that Easter morning in church, she dared not let him go away without it.
He smiled.
“I had no expense. The pilot is a friend of mine, you know.” And the quiet way in which he put the matter closed the subject forever, yet without making her feel uncomfortable.
Then suddenly her lip quivered, the tears came again, and she had to put her head down in her hands and weep.
It was very still in the little tearoom. There were no other customers present. The old lady had gone about her preparations for the next day; the lights were soft from shaded pink candles.
Seagrave rose and laid his hand softly upon her bowed head. “Child, your Father will comfort you if you will let Him.”
There was great tenderness in his voice, and Constance was deeply stirred. Her shoulders were quivering. “It has been dreadful!” she murmured.
“Yes, it must have been,” said the sympathetic voice and then after an instant, “Could I help any if I were to stay longer?”
Constance lifted her head and took firm hold of herself. “No, you mustn’t,” she said, trying to smile. “I—I’m—all right. I don’t know why I act like this. I’m not a weeper, but I just can’t tell you how grateful I am for your coming. I shall never, never forget it. No, you must not stay. I’ve taken your whole night now. I’ve got to snap out of this. I’ve got to go through this awful commencement somehow.”
He gave her another grave smile.
“I wish I could help, but—will it help you any to know that I’ll be praying?”
The color flew into her white cheeks.
“I think it will,” she said softly. “Since what you have done for Doris, I think it will.”
“Bless God for that!” he said. “But say not what I have done. Say what our God has done. We have a great Savior!”
They walked almost sil
ently to the dormitory entrance, and there at the door he paused.
“I wonder if you would read this little book and let it comfort you if I were to leave it with you?” he asked, taking out his little, soft leather-bound Testament.
“I would love to have it,” she said, accepting it eagerly. “Yes, I’ll read it.”
“Well, I must leave you,” he said and took her hand in one quick, close grasp. “I’ll be seeing you again, I hope, when you come home.”
Constance stood watching him walk rapidly down the elmshaded path among the flickering shadows where the moonlight sifted and thought to herself that he was a great man. He was the greatest man she knew. She remembered how he had looked when he was telling Doris the way to heaven, till it almost seemed that she standing by could see the gate swing wide to let her friend come in. She remembered his voice when he had prayed, and she gave a great shudder of a sob and turned away. Here was a man worthy of all friendship that any girl could give. A man she would rejoice to claim as near and dear, but she knew in her heart that she was unworthy, and the matter of the pearls swung down like a locked gateway between herself and him. If he ever knew what she had done, he would want no further friendship with her. Then with a doubly heavy heart she turned and went up to her desolated room. When she had gathered up Doris’s things and put them out of sight, she flung herself facedown upon her bed and wept her heart out on her pillow.
She was so terribly conscious of that other bed across the room, empty tonight. Conscious of her last conversation with Doris. She had said some bitter, scornful things about Casper Coulter. Perhaps if she had been more loving, less sarcastic, she might have won her to stay away from him. Oh, the bitterness of regrets!
If she could only go back a few hours! Perhaps she might have kept her at home from that fateful ride! She had been so occupied with her thesis and her other activities that Doris had been much to herself. Perhaps it was all her fault that Doris had kept up her friendship with Casper.
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