by Edwin Hodder
CHAPTER IX.
IN EXILE.
George went direct from the office to the railway station, and took aticket to Plymouth. He had but a short time to wait before the trainleft, and bore him away. The green fields and smiling country werenothing to him; he felt no pleasure in seeing the merry, happy childrenplaying in the lanes, as the train whizzed past. The greetings offriends on the platforms at the different stations only made him sigh.Who would greet him on his journeys? Tired and worn out with sleeplessnights and anxious days, he tried to doze, but the attempt was vain. Hefeared lest some one might have tracked his steps to the station, andhave telegraphed for him to be stopped at the terminus. Then, when hehad thought and pondered over such probabilities as these, andendeavoured to dismiss them, he tried to form some plans for the future;but all the future was dark--no ray of light, however faint or distant,could be seen, and every plan he would make must be left tocircumstances. When the passengers alighted at one of the stations totake refreshments, George got out too, for the purpose of breaking hislong fast. He tried to eat a biscuit, but he could not get it down,--allappetite was gone; so, drinking a glass of ale, he wandered to the bookstall, and purchased a newspaper to read during the remainder of thejourney. The train started off again, and George settled himself toread. The first thing that met his eye was an account of the assizes,and the first case was headed, "Forgery by a Banker's Clerk." Thisbrought back to remembrance, more vividly than ever, the sad scenes ofthe past few days; he threw the paper out of the window, and abandonedhimself to thought.
At last the train arrived at Plymouth. George hastened on to theplatform, and walked rapidly into the town, fearing lest any one shouldrecognize him, or lest any official should wish to detain him. With hisbag in hand, he wandered through the streets, uncertain what to do orwhere to go. Presently he came to a small house, in an obscure street,with a placard in the window stating that apartments were to let. Heknocked, and was answered by the landlady, a respectable looking woman,who told him that she had a bedroom and sitting-room to let, and wouldaccommodate him on reasonable terms. George said he should not requirethe room more than a few days, or a week, as he was about to leave byone of the vessels in the port. The terms were arranged, and he at oncetook possession. As it was very late, he thought he would go to bedwithout delay.
"Will you not have some supper first?" asked the landlady.
"No, thank you," said George: "I am tired with my journey, and shall beglad to get to sleep as soon as I can."
"But, sir, you really look ill," persisted the landlady, who was a kind,motherly woman; "will you let me make you a little spirits and water?"
"I will not refuse that," said George, "for I do feel ill. Parting withfriends and relatives is at all times a disagreeable matter, and I havebidden good-bye to them in London to-day, rather than bring them downhere."
"Ah, sir! parting is a sad thing," answered the woman. "It is two yearssince my son went to sea; he was much about your age, sir, and he wentaway against my wish, and I have never seen or heard from him since. Hehas nearly broken my heart, poor boy, and left me all alone in thiswide, hard world."
George was glad to have some one to talk to, but he was distressed bythis narration of his landlady. If she mourned for her son, who had beenabsent for two years, how would his mother mourn?
George passed a restless, anxious night; when he dozed off to sleep, itwas only to be tormented with harrowing dreams, in which he fanciedhimself at one time standing before a judge in a court of justice,answering to the crime of forgery. At another, gazing upon a funeralprocession moving slowly and solemnly along, with his Uncle Bruntonfollowing as sole mourner. Then he would start up, half with joy andhalf with sorrow, as he fancied he heard voices like those of his motherand uncle calling to him from the street. His head ached, and his heartwas heavy. He felt thankful when the morning dawned, and it was time torise. He bathed his hot, feverish head in water, and dressed; but as hepassed by the looking-glass and caught a glance at his pale, haggardcountenance, so changed within a few short hours, he started.
"Oh, God! give me strength! give me strength!" he said. "If I should beill, if anything should happen to me, what should I do? I am all alone;there is no one to care for me now!" And he sank down in a chair,burying his face in his hands as if to hide the picture his mind haddrawn.
After breakfast, he strolled to the docks, looked over some of thevessels, and made inquiries about the shipping offices. He learned thata ship was about to sail immediately to Port Natal, and that allinformation could be obtained of the agents. Thither George repaired;the agent gave him an exaggerated account of the signal prosperity whichall enterprising young men met with in Natal, praised Pietermaritzburg,the capital of the colony, and offered to give him letters ofintroduction to residents there, who would advise him as to the bestways of making a comfortable living. The agent then took him down to thevessel, told him that he must take a passage at once, if he wished toleave by her, as she would sail in two or three days at the latest. Itwas a matter of comparative indifference to George where he went--thelarge, lonely world was before him, and Port Natal might make him asgood a home as anywhere else. George went back with the agent to theoffice, and paid a deposit of fifteen pounds on the passage money.
"What is your name, sir?" asked the agent, with pen in hand, ready tomake the entry.
George coloured as he answered, "Frederick Vincent."
"Then, Mr. Vincent, you will be on board not later than nine o'clock onTuesday morning; the vessel will go out of harbour by twelve. You cancome on board as much earlier as you like, but I have named the latesttime. You had better send your luggage down on Monday."
"Luggage?" said George. "Oh, yes! that shall be sent in time."
As George returned to his lodgings, he felt even more wretched than whenhe started out It was Wednesday morning, and the vessel would not leavetill the following Tuesday. The excitement of choosing a vessel wasover; there was now only the anxiety and suspense of waiting itsdeparture. True, he had his outfit to purchase, but this would have tobe done furtively; he could not bear to be walking in the streets inbroad daylight, noticed by passers-by, every one of whom he fancied knewhis whole history, and was plotting either to prevent his departure, orto reveal his secret.
Mrs. Murdoch (that was the name of his landlady) endeavoured to make himas comfortable as possible in his apartments; but external comfort wasnothing to George--he wanted some word of love, some one to talk to, asin days of old. He avoided conversation as much as possible with Mrs.Murdoch, for she would talk of her absent son, and every word went as anarrow to George's heart.
That first day seemed a week. Hour after hour dragged wearily along, andwhen six o'clock in the evening came, George thought all time must havereceived some disarrangement, for it seemed as if days had elapsed sincethe morning. He went out after dark to a neighbouring shop and made somepurchases of outfit; but he was thankful when he had completed his task,for he had noticed a man walking backwards and forwards in front of theshop, and he felt a nervous dread lest it should be some spy upon him.He resolved that he would remain in his rooms, and not go out againuntil he left for the voyage on Tuesday, but would ask Mrs. Murdoch tomake the remainder of the necessary purchases for him.
How lonely and desolate George felt that night! More than once he halfdetermined rather to bear shame and reproach, and have the society ofthose he loved, than continue in that dreadful isolation. He wasthoroughly unmanned. "Oh, that Hardy or Ashton were here, or any friend,just to say, 'George Weston, old fellow,' once more; what a weight ofdreariness it would remove!" Then he would wonder what was going on athome, whether his mother was plunged in grief, or whether she wassaying, "He has brought it all on himself, let him bear it." But Georgecould not reconcile this last thought; he tried hard to cherish it; hefelt he would infinitely rather know his mother was filled with angerand abhorrence at his crime, than that she mourned for him, and longedto press him to her bosom and bind up the wou
nded heart. But he couldnot shake off this last idea. It haunted him every moment, and added tothe weight of sorrow which seemed crushing him.
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday passed, and George was still the victimto anxiety and corroding care. He had paced his room each day, andtossed restlessly in his bed each night; had tried reading and writing,to while away the time, and had found every attempt futile.
Mrs. Murdoch was anxious on his account.
"Mr. Vincent," she said to him, "you eat nothing, you take no exercise;you don't sleep at night, for I can hear you, from my room, tossingabout; and I am doctor enough to know that you are ill, and will beworse, if you do not make some alteration. Do be persuaded by me, andtake some little recreation, or else you will not be in a fit state togo on board on Tuesday."
"You are very kind, Mrs. Murdoch," replied George, "but I have no bodilyailment. If I could get a change of thought, that is the best physic fora mind diseased."
"It is, sir," replied the landlady; "and now will you think me rude if Itell you how you may have that change of thought? You are about to starton a very dangerous voyage; for long months you will have the sky aboveand the sea below, and only a few planks between you and death. Haveyou, sir, committed your way to the Lord, and placed your life in Hishands? I know it is a strange thing to ask you, but I hope you will notbe offended. You have seemed so sad for the past day or two, that Icould not help feeling you wanted comfort, and none can give it but theHeavenly Friend."
"I do want comfort and support, Mrs. Murdoch, but--"
"No, sir, there is no _but_ in the case. 'Come onto Me, all ye that areweary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest'--is said to all; andwe only have to go to Him to find all we want."
"Well, Mrs. Murdoch, I will see if I cannot combine both yoursuggestions; and as to-morrow will be Sunday, it will be a recreation togo to some church or chapel. Can you recommend me a good preacher?"
"Yes, sir, that I can. If you will go to my pew at chapel to-morrowmorning, I am sure you will like the gentleman who preaches there."
"Then I will go," said George.
When he went up to his room again, those few words of Mrs. Murdoch werestill speaking to him.
"'Weary and heavy laden!' he thought; surely that is my lot. I so young,once so happy, to feel weary and heavy laden; how strange! But no, it isnot strange--it is natural. Sin brings its punishment, and it is hardwork, bearing its burden! oh! that I could find some spot where I couldrest."
There was a spot, not far from George, where he could have rested, buthe did not know it. He was oppressed with his weariness, and he longedfor peace and ease of mind to come to him. He did not consider thewords, "Come unto ME."
There was an old Family Bible on the book-case in his room, and Georgetook it down. It was a long time since he had read the Word of God: andwhen he had it was only to compare it with the dangerous opinions he hadreceived, and find out what he imagined to be its discrepancies andcontradictions. A feeling of remorse came over him as he put the book onthe table.
"What right have I to open this book, or attempt to find anything herefor encouragement?" he asked himself. "I have mocked and ridiculed it indays of prosperity, and yet I am willing to take it up in trouble, as ifit were an old friend. Ah! it was an old friend once, but that has allgone by now."
He sat a long time looking at the book. Perhaps there is nothing thatbrings back the memories of the past more vividly than the sight of aFamily Bible to one who has long ceased to read and love it. There areold scenes of childhood associated with it which time can never erase.Who cannot remember sitting on his mother's knee, or with chair drawn upbeside his father, hearing its sweet music sounded in the home circle onthe Sabbath night? Who can forget the last evening of the holidaysbefore going back to school, when the old book was brought out, and someuseful text was selected as a monitor and remembrancer? Who can forgetthe time when some loved one was ill, and as friends and relatives satround the bed of the invalid, the Book was laid upon the table, andwords of comfort were proclaimed to all.
Many and many a scene moved past George in the mental panorama which thesight of Mrs. Murdoch's book created. He seemed not to be remembering,but to be living in the former days. There was his father seated in theold arm-chair, with Carlo, the faithful dog at his feet, and his elbowsrented upon the table, and his head upon his hand--a favouriteattitude--as he read the Sacred Word. There was dear old Dr. Seaward,with his spectacles stuck up on his forehead, in his study atFolkestone, and a party of boys round him, listening eagerly to thewords of instruction and advice which fell from his lips.
And then the past merged into the present, and George started to findhimself alone in a strange room, in a strange town, with a strange Biblebefore him.
He opened the Book and read. The fifty-first Psalm was the portion ofScripture to which he inadvertently turned, commencing, "Have mercy uponme, O God, according to thy loving-kindness; according unto themultitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions."
He read the Psalm through in amazement. Again he read it, withincreased wonder and astonishment, that any one should have made aprayer so exactly like that which he felt in his heart he wanted topray; and at last he went to the door and locked it, for fear ofinterruption, took the Bible from the table and placed it on a chair,and kneeling down read the prayer again; and repeating it aloud,sentence by sentence, offered it up as his petition to the throne ofMercy.
* * * * *
On Sunday morning, when the bells were ringing their glad peals, and thepeople were already in the streets, on their way to the different placesof worship, George started off, directed by Mrs. Murdoch, to the chapelof which she had spoken to him.
He felt very sad as he walked along; it was the last Sunday, perhaps, heshould ever spend in England, and he must spend it alone, an alien fromall whom he loved. The temporary calm which he had experienced on theprevious evening had gone; no prayer for assistance through the day hadissued from his lips that morning, but there was the old feeling ofshame, and chagrin, and disgrace, which had haunted him for the pastweek, and with it the dogged determination to bear up against it untilit should be lost in forgetfulness. But George had resolved to go tochapel that morning, because he felt he wanted a change of some sort,and there was a melancholy pleasure in spending a part of his lastSunday in England after his once customary manner.
The preacher was an old gentleman, of a mild, benevolent countenance,and with a winning, persuasive manner. When he gave out the first hymn,reading it solemnly and impressively, George felt he should havepleasure in listening to the sermon. The congregation joined in the hymnof praise, with heart and voice lifted up to the God of the Sabbath inthanksgiving. The singing was rich and good, and George, who was apassionate lover of music, was touched by its sweet harmony. He did notjoin in the hymn, his heart was too full for that; but the strains weresoothing, and produced a natural, reverential emotion which he had beenlong unaccustomed to feel.
The minister took for his text the words, "'Lord, if thou wilt, thoucanst make me clean.' And Jesus put forth His hand, and touched him,saying, 'I will, be thou clean.'"
A rush of joy thrilled through George as he heard the words. Hisattention was rivetted as he listened to the simple story of the leperbeing restored to health; and when the preacher drew the comparisonbetween leprosy and sin, and revealed Jesus as the Great Physician tothe sick soul, who, in reply to the heartfelt wish, could say, "Thysins, which are many, are all forgiven thee," George felt the wholestrength of his soul concentrated in that one desire, "Lord, if thouwilt, thou canst make _me_ clean." He looked into his own heart--he wasalmost afraid to look--and saw the ravages of disease there. He thoughtof his past life; there was not one thing to recommend him to God.NEVER before had he seen his sin in the light in which it was nowrevealed by God's Word. He had viewed it in relation to man's opinion,and his own consciousness; but now the Holy Spirit was striving withinhim, and showing him his posit
ion in the sight of God.
The preacher went on to unfold the sweet story of the Cross, to tell ofthe simple plan of salvation, and to point to Jesus, the Lamb of God,"who taketh away the sins of the world." It seemed to George as if hehad never heard the glad tidings before; it had never made the hot tearrun down his cheek, as he thought of the Saviour suffering for sins notHis own, until now; it had never before torn the agonised sigh from hisheart, as the truth flashed before him that it was he who had helped tonail the Holy One to the accursed tree; he had never realised beforethat earth was but the portal to the heavenly mansions--that time wasbut the herald of eternity. Now, all these things came crowding upon hismind, and when the sermon concluded he was in a bewilderment of joy andsorrow.
A parting hymn was sung--that glorious old hymn--
"There is a fountain filled with blood, Drawn from Emmanuel's veins."
When it came to those lines--
"The dying _thief_ rejoiced to see That fountain in his day; And there may I, though vile as he, Wash all my sins away:"
he could bear it no longer: he could not restrain the torrent of tearswhich was struggling to get free; he could not stay in that assembly ofpeople; he must be alone, alone with God, alone with his own heart.
When he reached his apartments, he went immediately to his room, andthere, beside his bed, he knelt and poured out his soul to God. Wordscould not tell his wants, words could not express his contrition; butthere he knelt, a silent pleader, presenting himself with all the darkcatalogue of a life's sin before his dishonoured God.
George thought he had experienced the extremity of sorrow during the fewdays he had been in Plymouth, but it was as nothing compared with thathe now felt. He had grieved over name and reputation lost, prospectsblighted, and self-respect forfeited, but now he mourned over a Goddishonoured, a Saviour slighted, a life mis-spent. Is there any sorrowlike unto that sorrow which is felt by a soul crushed beneath the senseof sin?
How that day passed, George hardly knew. He felt his whole lifeepitomised in those few hours spent in solemn confession. Oh, how helonged to realise a sense of pardon--to know and feel, as the leper knewand felt, that he was made clean. But he could not do so: he only felthimself lost and ruined, and found expression but in one cry, "Unclean!unclean!"
He was aroused in the evening by the ringing of church bells again; and,taking a hasty cup of tea, at Mrs. Murdoch's solicitation, he once morebent his steps to the place of worship he had visited in the morning,with the earnest desire and prayer that he might hear such truthstaught as would enable him to see Jesus.
How often does God "_devise means_ that His banished be not expelledfrom Him," and in His providential mercy order those events andcircumstances to occur, which are instrumental in preparing the mind forthe reception of His truth! It was no chance, no mere coincidence, thatthe preacher took for his text those words which were associated with somany recollections of George, "_for me to live is Christ_."
Simply, but earnestly, he drew pictures of life, in its many phases, andcontrasted them with the one object worth living for. Upon all else waswritten, vanity of vanities--living for pleasure was but another namefor living for future woe: living for wealth was losing all; living forhonour was but heaping condemnation for the last day: while living forChrist gave not only pleasure, and riches, and honour here, buthereafter. Then he spoke of the preciousness of Jesus to those whobelieve, as the sympathising Friend, and the loving Brother; of thehonour and joy of living for Him who had died to bring life andimmortality to light; and of that "peace which passeth understanding."
That night there was joy in the presence of the angels of God over anew-born soul. As George listened to the voice of the preacher, therefell from his eyes as it had been scales, and he saw the Father runningto embrace the returning prodigal, and felt the kiss of His forgivinglove. The words which his earthly father had last spoken to him, werethose chosen by his heavenly Father to show him his new blissfulrelationship as a son. And at what a gracious time! George was awanderer, an outcast, without father or friend, without object or aim inlife, and the doors of heaven were thrown open to him; the sympathy ofDivine love was poured into that aching heart, and the words ofrejoicing were uttered, "This, MY SON, was dead, and is alive again; waslost, and is found."
The weary one was at rest, the heart of stone palpitated with a livingbreath, "The dead one heard the voice of the Son of God, and lived."
Who can sympathise with George as he sat in his room that night,overwhelmed with joy unspeakable? He was a new creature in a new world;old things had passed away, behold all things had become new. He lookedup to heaven as his home, to God as his Father, to Jesus as his greatelder Brother; and he realised his life as hidden with Christ in God,redeemed and reconciled, henceforth not his own, but given to Him whohad washed him, and made him clean in His own blood.
* * * * *
Great joy is harder to bear than great sorrow. George had suddenly gonefrom one to the other extreme, and at a time when he was suffering fromphysical prostration, the result of such strong mental struggles.
"Mr. Vincent, it is nine o'clock," Mrs. Murdoch called out, as sheknocked at his door next morning. No answer was returned.
"Mr. Vincent, will you come down to breakfast, sir?" she repeated moreloudly, but with no greater success.
Again she knocked, wondering that George should sleep so soundly, and beso difficult to arouse, as he was accustomed to answer at the firstcall.
"Mr. Vincent, breakfast is waiting!"
No answer coming, Mrs. Murdoch was anxious; she knew George had beenreally ill for several days past, and had noticed his strange manner onthe previous evening. Without further hesitation, she opened the door,and there on the floor lay George Weston, insensible, having apparentlyfallen while in the act of dressing.
Calling for assistance, she at once laid him upon the bed, applied allthe restoratives at hand, and without a moment's delay despatched amessenger to the chemist in the next street, with instructions for himto attend immediately.