by Anonymous
CHAPTER IX.
SORROWFUL DAYS.
To bed; but not to my usual peaceful sleep; for all the night throughone terrible dream seemed to succeed the other, until, in the act oflanding at the White-Rock Cove, and calling for help, I woke at last tofind myself standing somewhere in the dark, I could not at first makeout where, though it turned out to be in Aleck's room, to which I hadmade my way in my sleep.
I began to cry with fright, and my father came running up to see whatwas the matter. He was quite dressed, and brought a candle with him, andlooked so natural and real that he chased away all spectral frights.After he had put me back to bed, and sat with me a little, I fell into aquieter sleep than I had had before; and slept on, indeed, quite late,for nobody called me the next morning, and I did not come down untilprayers were over, and breakfast just about to commence.
Only my father and Dr. Wilson were in the room. My father looked veryanxious; but Dr. Wilson spoke to me cheerily enough.
"So this is the young gentleman," he said, drawing me towards him, "thatis not content to walk by day, but must needs walk by night also!" andhe looked straight at me, as if he could read me through and through;whilst I, knowing the dreadful story hidden in my heart, felt quitealarmed lest he might read _that_ there; and I could feel the beatingsof my heart, as if a steam-engine were at work, as I tried not to meetthe glance of those keen, piercing eyes.
He released me after a moment, and presently afterwards said to myfather,--
"Close your lesson-books for a while; the boat and the saddle will bethe best lesson-books, or you may have more trouble than you think of."
I felt sure what he said had something to do with me, and wondered whathe meant,--finding the explanation in Mr. Glengelly's strangeindisposition to give me anything but a drawing-lesson that morning, andtaking me off for a long ride before dinner, contrary to all establishedcustoms.
Aleck grew no better all through the day, and the next night he wasworse.
On Saturday morning, two other doctors came to consult with Dr. Wilson;and I could read in the grave faces around me that the worst wasapprehended. But I saw scarcely anything of my father or mother, or evennurse, so that all tidings from the sick-room came through remotechannels--servants who had taken something up to the room, or Mr.Glengelly, who had seen one of the doctors for a moment, and whom Isuspected of keeping back the full gravity of the verdict.
If I could only have seen my father or mother alone quietly, withouttheir being in a hurry, I thought I should have told them everything;but no opportunity presented itself, and another weary day wore bywithout any unburdening of my conscience, or relief to my gloomyanticipations.
Sunday morning! Such a happy day generally! for my parents contrived tomake it really, and not nominally, the best of all the seven; but now,how dreary was the awakening to a Sunday which I expected to be only themelancholy repetition of the preceding days, if not far sadder!
The weather had turned chilly, and the servants, to make things look alittle brighter, made this the excuse for a fire in the dining-room, bywhich I crouched down on the rug, after breakfast, with a Sundaystory-book in my hand, wondering whether I should go to church, or whatwould happen in a state of things so different from what was usual; andwhy it was I was told I need not prepare my repetition lesson from theBible, according to custom. By-and-by my father came in and told me toget ready to go with him to church; he thought he might safely leaveAleck for a little while, and would like to have me walk with him.
We had not far to go, for the church stood but a quarter of a mile fromour house, and there was a direct pathway to it through the woods. Ithought perhaps I should muster courage to open my heart to my father aswe went along. But first we met one person and then another, anxious toknow the last report from the sick-room, so that we had no time alone,and I had to reserve my confession until we should come home afterchurch. Aleck was to be prayed for in church, my father told me; and headded that I was to think of Uncle and Aunt Gordon too, in the Litany,for it would be a sore trouble to them to have been away from their onlychild in such a time as this. And then he spoke to me of childish fearsabout death, and said that, for those who were safe in Jesus, death wasa friend, and not an enemy; and that I must pray that, if it pleased GodAleck should never get well, he might go to the beautiful home preparedfor all the children of God: and the firm grasp of my father's hand, andhis clear, unhesitating voice, conveyed to my timorous, troubled heart,a sort of belief in a calm, sheltered haven, that might succeed in timeto the outside tossings on stormy waters, and I felt comforted, though Iscarcely knew how.
Mr. Morton, our clergyman, was away for a month's holidays, and it was astranger who performed the service. When I heard the prayers of thecongregation requested for "Alexander Ringwall Gordon, who wasdangerously ill," it seemed almost more than I could bear, the longformal enunciation of his name sounding so terribly like adeath-warrant.
If ever I tried to _pray_ the Church prayers, and not merely say them,it was that morning; and it seemed to me quite wonderful how much ofthem agreed with my own feelings, how many things there were in theservice that were exactly what I wanted. Hitherto the singing hadappeared the only attractive portion of divine worship; but now that,for the first time in my life, I knew what it was to have a reallysin-burdened conscience, the sweetest music seemed as nothing incomparison with the assurance that a broken and contrite spirit wouldnot be despised of God, or to the comfort of ranking myself unreservedlyamongst the miserable sinners in the Litany--concerning whom I hadhitherto only wondered, Were they so miserable after all?--and pleadingalike with voice and heart for God's mercy, of which I felt myself tostand so sorely in need.
The Commandments were being read when the little door leading into ourlarge family-pew was opened, and Rickson softly came in and whispered tomy father, who in his turn leant over and whispered to me. A message hadcome from the house, he said, and he must go back at once; he knew Icould be trusted to stay by myself and walk home afterwards. He andRickson quietly slipped out, and I was left sole tenant of the largesquare pew, with its high partition, and ponderous chairs, andfire-place, and table, just like a small room, as is the custom inold-fashioned churches.
Very lonely indeed I felt, as I stood up by myself, and tried to join inthe hymn, and wished that I were not so small or the pew not so lofty;it seemed so strange to be joining in singing with people of whom nosingle individual could be seen--it had never struck me before, with myown dear parents always at my side. Presently the clerk appeared openingthe door of the pulpit--that at all events I could see--to the strangeclergyman, who seemed to me to look with a searching glance of inquirystraight down into my solitary domain, as if he meant to call me toaccount for being there all alone.
Having nobody to look at as an example, I sat myself timidly upon acorner of one of the chairs after the hymn was over, and then, suddenlyremembering I had made a mistake, knelt down with the colour mounting tothe very roots of my hair, and a terrible sense of the congregation alllooking at me and taking notes of my behaviour.
We smile at our childish embarrassments as we look back upon them, butthey are very serious and real troubles whilst they last.
When I rose from my knees, I was far too shy to place myselfcomfortably, but sat, as before, upon a little corner of a chair, andhoped the congregation wouldn't take any notice, whilst mentally Iprepared myself for unrestrained meditation on the all-engrossingsubject of my thoughts, in place of the many speculations with which Iwas wont to beguile sermon-time in general.
For here I must pause to observe that Mr. Morton's sermons were usuallyentirely beyond my childish understanding, and attention to them on mypart was practically in vain; so that after learning the text by heart,which I was always expected to repeat perfectly afterwards, I used tospend a great part of the time remaining to me in a minute survey of allobjects falling within the limited range of my observation, includingespecially the monumental tablets, of which there were many on the
church walls; those on the right being for the most part to the memoryof the Grants of Braycombe; those on the left to the successive rectorsof Braycombe parish, who had lived and died after what seemed to meboundless periods of ministry amongst their attached flock.
Two of these tablets in particular had supplied much food forconsideration in my early days.--I used to look back upon early dayseven at ten years old with a sort of affectionate patronage.--Thesetablets exactly corresponded with each other in size and position, andwere both beyond the range of complete legibility, only words incapitals coming out distinctly. But these very words in capitals werethe cause of my anxious meditations. For on the one hand I read the nameof the "Rev. Joseph Brocklehurst, Rector," with, a line or two furtherdown, "Mary, wife of the _above_;" whilst on the other, which was to thememory of my grandfather, my own name at full length, "William PrestonGrant," was underneath the only other word I could distinguish, and thatword was "_Below._" Many a Sunday did I ruminate upon the unpleasantcontrast which, to my mind, was suggested by the two prepositionsbetween the present condition of the Rev. Joseph Brocklehurst and thatof my grandfather; and it was not without some hesitation that Irevealed my perplexity to my father at last, by the abrupt inquiry, oneday on our way home from church, whether my grandfather had been a_very_ wicked man. Greatly surprised were both my parents at thisunlooked-for question, and I believe not a little amused at the train ofreasoning which had led me to it; but they took an early opportunity oftaking me into the church, not on a Sunday, and permitting me to go nearto the tablets, pointing out the connecting words which were notlegible, and which supplied a full explanation of all that I wanted toknow, and showing me that the _below_ referred to the position of thefamily vault under the church, and the _above_ to the relative positionof the Rev. J. Brocklehurst's name to that of his wife.
Often after that explanation I thought, as I looked at the tablets, ofthe words my father said to me at the time: "Willie, there are manythings in God's dealings with his children that are hard to understand_here_; by-and-by, when we see things nearer, in the light of eternity,we shall find out that our difficulty has just been because here we seein part--as you did the inscriptions--but _then_ we shall see face toface, and know even as we are known."
There was another monumental tablet about which I thought a great deal,which preached to me a silent sermon as often as I looked at it. Underthe name and date of birth and death of the person it commemorated werethe words, "_Prepare to meet thy God._" I spent a long time looking forthem in my Bible, and thought a great deal about the verse when I hadfound it; wondering whether the young midshipman, son of one of therectors, upon whose monument it had been engraved, had thought aboutthem too, or whether it was a sort of warning because he had _not_prepared. It was upon this latter train of thought, with reflectionsconcerning Aleck and myself woven into it--_I_ clearly not prepared, andwondering whether Aleck was prepared--that I found myself starting as Isettled shyly upon my little corner of the chair, and looked timidly formy Bible in order to find the text.
What was my surprise when Psalm lxvi. 18 was given out, and thewell-known words, so often repeated to myself, were repeated slowly andimpressively by the stranger clergyman from the pulpit--"If I regardiniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."
It seemed to me so wonderful and so strange that he should have fixedupon the very passage that I had thought of so often within the previoustwo days, that at first I almost fancied I was dreaming. But I feltstill more surprised when, after anxiously attending to what was saidfor a few minutes, I found the sermon was as easy to understand as mymother's conversation after a Bible reading: all inattention was gone,and for the first time in my life I was listening with interest deepand anxious, whilst the clergyman, in simple language, explained thetext so clearly that not one in the church need have gone awayuninstructed.
_The_ great question that I wanted to hear answered was, Whether, in mycircumstances, with an unconfessed sin lying heavily on my heart, it wasof any use for me to pray to God for Aleck?--what was the exact meaningof _regarding iniquity_ in my heart?
The very first words of the sermon landed us in the midst of thequestion. "Unforgiven sin," said the clergyman, "is a barrier betweenour souls and our God." And presently afterwards he referred us toIsaiah lix. 2: "Your iniquities have separated between you and your God,and your sins have hid his face from you that he will not hear;" and toa long passage in the 1st chapter of Isaiah, finishing with the words,"When ye make many prayers, I will not hear: your hands are full ofblood." Then he spoke to the congregation of the many Sundays duringwhich they had come together to worship, whilst in the case of many ofthem their lives were unsanctified, their religion for one day in sevenonly, not for the whole week;--they loved their sins and would not givethem up on any account, hoping to square their account with God by anoutward attendance on Divine worship. It was all put in very simplelanguage; and we were told to look back into one week of our lives tofind out whether we were _fighting against_ sin as an enemy, or_cherishing_ sin as a friend: and if living in sin, as servants ofSatan, we had the solemn truth to lay home to our consciences that ourprayers never reached heaven; the promise, true for the children of God,that he would hear and answer prayer, was not true for those who werethe servants or slaves of sin.
Then there was an appeal to those who felt conscious of sin and wishedfor forgiveness, and I felt I belonged to that class, and listened withincreasing eagerness. Was it for them to say, "I must then reform myways and make myself better before I can go to Christ for pardon?" Oh,no! The prayer of the publican, "God be merciful to me a sinner," washeard and answered. Christ's invitation was addressed to the weary and_heavy laden_, "Come unto _Me_." He died to take our punishment insteadof us; and those who, instead of cherishing sin, felt it a burden tooheavy for them to bear, were to bring it and lay it down at the foot ofthe cross, and find rest to their souls.
There followed a few words about sins _forgiven_ being sins _forsaken_.Any person who had been in the habit of dishonest dealing would adopthabits of rectitude, and would make restitution when possible. Those whohad uttered falsehoods would no longer persist in untruthfulness, butwould speak the whole truth, even if to their own cost. And all thiswould be because Christ _had_ forgiven them, and not in order to _obtainforgiveness_. I do not remember the rest of the sermon, but just at theend there was a beautiful piece about the happiness of finding the greatbarrier gone:--Just as when a little child, conscious of some wrongaction, feels ashamed to meet the eyes of its loving parents, and isconscious of a separation that casts a dark shadow over all the usualhome happiness, at last, with repenting heart and quivering voice,whispers in the loving ears of father or mother the secret trouble thatlies heavily upon the sin-burdened conscience, and in the tender embraceof forgiveness finds pardon and peace: so with the sinner who has foundpeace at the foot of the cross; the barrier of separation is no more;the way into the holiest is made manifest by the blood of the Atonement;and the promise is written in letters of gold, "_If ye abide in me, andmy words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will and it shall be doneunto you._"
Before I left the church, and took my solitary walk home through thewood, I had made up my mind to confess all to my parents at the veryearliest opportunity; and with this determination there was already asense of relief.
But the opportunity did not occur so soon as I had expected; for I founda solitary dinner awaiting me, and the whole of that long afternoon,except for the servants, who brought a message once or twice from thesick-room to the effect that my parents dared not leave even for aminute, I was quite alone, either sitting on the hearth-rug by the fire,or standing at the door listening for any footstep on the passageup-stairs, or even the opening or shutting of doors.
At last, at about five o'clock, I heard my father coming softlydown-stairs, and sprang to meet him. "Papa, papa, tell me, is Aleckbetter?"
"I fear not, my child," answered my father gently. "I think, Willie,that God is going
to take him to Himself. But he is conscious just now,and wants to see you. He has asked that he may wish you good-bye. Youmust be very quiet indeed, and speak very gently."
I felt the tears coming hot and fast, and there was a terrible chokingin my throat; but it was impossible to hold out one moment longer, and,struggling through my sobs, I gasped out, "Oh, papa, I have killedhim!--it's all my fault!--oh! what shall I do?" and I clung,terror-stricken, to the hand which he had placed on my shoulder.
My father sat down, and tried to soothe me, putting his arm around me,and saying kind, comforting words, evidently at a loss to understand thepurport of my broken utterances, whilst I tried, and tried in vain, tocontrol my sobs, and regain sufficient composure to explain.
At last he said firmly,--
"This agitation would do Aleck grievous harm; I must not take you to himuntil you are quite calm, Willie, and yet the moments are precious: keepwhat you have to say until another time, and try to stop crying; I shallhave to go up-stairs without you, unless you can be ready soon."
Then he gave me a glass of water, and still telling me not to speak,waited until I had mastered my emotion and was tolerably calm, then ledme by the hand up to Aleck's room.
"Wish me good-bye," I said over and over to myself. Such a longgood-bye, how could I bear it!
There was no one else in the room at the moment but my mother, who satat the foot of the bed with something in her hand for Aleck. It was notuntil I had advanced nearly to the bed that, with tear-blinded eyes, Icould distinguish my cousin's face. It was so deadly pale that I startedat the sight; but though pale and wan he was perfectly conscious, andas I drew near he whispered softly,--
"I'm so glad you've come, Willie--I wanted to see you, and wish yougood-bye." There was a pause, and then more faintly he continued,--"Iwant to be quite sure you've forgiven me, Willie;--Jesus has; I've askedhim."
I bent forward and kissed the white face that lay so quiet and still,struggling to keep down my sobs, though I felt as if my heart wouldbreak, and longing to be able to say but one word, that Aleck might knowit was I who asked his forgiveness, but longing in vain.
"You forgive me quite, Willie," murmured Aleck again.
WILLIE AT ALECK'S BED SIDE.]
But at the first attempt to speak, I broke down utterly, with such aburst of pent-up grief, that to control it was impossible, and I washurried quickly out of the room, lest my emotion should be injurious toAleck; my mother herself almost carrying me down-stairs, and sorelydivided between the desire to stay and comfort me, and at the same timeto remain at her post up-stairs with my cousin.
For a few minutes, however, she remained with her arm around me, and myhead resting on her shoulder; and when, by degrees, I grew a little morecalm, though it cost a fearful effort, I contrived to sob out myconfession, and let her know how wicked I had been, and also howmiserable. I could see it was a terrible shock to her when she graspedmy meaning, and she did not attempt to disguise the pain it cost her.For the first time in my life I saw my mother shed tears. But theknowledge of my guilt seemed to add to her pity for me.
"My poor little Willie," she said; "you have indeed had a terrible loadupon your heart; your punishment has come more quickly upon you and moreheavily than sometimes happens: but remember there is One whose bloodcleanses from all sin--the heavenly Father's ear is open to you, Willie,through Jesus, and you must get forgiveness where those who really seekit are never turned away."
"I wanted to tell Aleck, mamma, too; but I couldn't."
"There is no need to trouble Aleck about that now," said my mothersorrowfully: "the ship seems a little thing to him now, Willie; histhoughts are on the great things of eternity. It might agitate him, andit would not make him happier to know about it; but if you like I willtell him that you love him dearly, and are very sorry for everything youhave ever done that may not have been kind."
Even this message, vague as it was, seemed better than none, and Ithankfully endorsed it.
"But oh, mamma," I added, "do tell me that you think it just possible hemay get well again. I think it will kill me if he does not."
"He is in God's hands, Willie," answered my mother, "and with God allthings are possible; but I fear there is little hope of his getting anybetter. Dr. Wilson does not say there is _no_ hope, but the otherdoctors quite gave him up. I do not hide it from you, my child, becauseit is easier to know the worst than to be in doubt and suspense; and Godwill help you--help us all--to bear it."
There were tears in my mother's eyes and a tremble in her voice as shesaid this, and as it rushed upon me all at once how greatly it must addto her trouble to know that I was the cause of it, my own grief seemedrekindled. She gently unclasped my hands, which were tightly lockedaround her.
"I must leave you now, my poor child," she said; "I cannot stay a minutelonger away from Aleck;" and stooping down, she kissed me in spite of mywickedness, and went away up-stairs; whilst I, throwing myself upon thesofa, buried my head in my hands, and wept until, from sheer exhaustion,I seemed to grow quiet at last, whilst the day-light faded away, and thefaint flickering of the fire-light produced mysterious shadows on theceiling, and made the things in the room assume to my feveredimagination weird and fanciful shapes.
But there was a species of dim comfort in watching the fire; and acomfort, too, in spite of my misery, in the recollection that I hadconfessed my sin--that it was no longer a dread secret in my own solekeeping, but was shared by the strong, tender hearts, of my parents: andit seemed to come soothingly to my mind that now the barrier of sinmight be taken away, and my heart rose once again in earnest prayer toGod for forgiveness. Then I began to think about the great things ofeternity my mother had spoken of; and of the meeting-time for those whowere parted on earth, of Aleck, and of Old George, and his son--Ralph'sfather; and of what Groves said about the open book; and then came therecollection of the sea-stained little Testament, and the quaint verseat its beginning, and the young sailor's profession of faith, "Father,He died for me, I must live for Him." My mind travelled from one thoughtto another, whilst ever and anon a struggling sob for breath seemed likethe subsiding of a tempest. Shaping themselves into more or lessdefinite plans, came thoughts, too, of the future before me in thisworld:--I should never be quite happy any more, I thought; but I wouldtry to keep on, like Ralph's father, living for Christ in some way, andgrow up to be very good--perhaps I should be a missionary--I was notquite sure on the whole what sphere of life would be the most trying orpraiseworthy--and then at last Aleck and I would meet in heaven. This Ibelieve to have been the last point of conscious reflection, for moreand more vague and desultory became my thoughts afterwards. Nature wouldhave her revenge for all the restlessness and anxiety of the past fewdays. I fell into a profound sleep.