SORROWFUL DAYS.
To bed; but not to my usual peaceful sleep; for all the night through one terrible dream seemed to succeed the other, until, in the act of landing at the White-Rock Cove, and calling for help, I woke at last to find myself standing somewhere in the dark, I could not at first make out where, though it turned out to be in Aleck's room, to which I had made my way in my sleep.
I began to cry with fright, and my father came running up to see what was the matter. He was quite dressed, and brought a candle with him, and looked 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 a quieter 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 until prayers were over, and breakfast just about to commence.
Only my father and Dr. Wilson were in the room. My father looked very anxious; but Dr. Wilson spoke to me cheerily enough.
"So this is the young gentleman," he said, drawing me towards him, "that is not content to walk by day, but must needs walk by night also!" and he looked straight at me, as if he could read me through and through; whilst I, knowing the dreadful story hidden in my heart, felt quite alarmed lest he might read that there; and I could feel the beatings of my heart, as if a steam-engine were at work, as I tried not to meet the glance of those keen, piercing eyes.
He released me after a moment, and presently afterwards said to my father,—
"Close your lesson-books for a while; the boat and the saddle will be the 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 what he meant,—finding the explanation in Mr. Glengelly's strange indisposition to give me anything but a drawing-lesson that morning, and taking me off for a long ride before dinner, contrary to all established customs.
Aleck grew no better all through the day, and the next night he was worse.
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 was apprehended. But I saw scarcely anything of my father or mother, or even nurse, so that all tidings from the sick-room came through remote channels—servants who had taken something up to the room, or Mr. Glengelly, who had seen one of the doctors for a moment, and whom I suspected of keeping back the full gravity of the verdict.
If I could only have seen my father or mother alone quietly, without their being in a hurry, I thought I should have told them everything; but no opportunity presented itself, and another weary day wore by without any unburdening of my conscience, or relief to my gloomy anticipations.
Sunday morning! Such a happy day generally! for my parents contrived to make 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 the melancholy repetition of the preceding days, if not far sadder!
The weather had turned chilly, and the servants, to make things look a little brighter, made this the excuse for a fire in the dining-room, by which I crouched down on the rug, after breakfast, with a Sunday story-book in my hand, wondering whether I should go to church, or what would happen in a state of things so different from what was usual; and why it was I was told I need not prepare my repetition lesson from the Bible, according to custom. By-and-by my father came in and told me to get ready to go with him to church; he thought he might safely leave Aleck 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 from our house, and there was a direct pathway to it through the woods. I thought perhaps I should muster courage to open my heart to my father as we went along. But first we met one person and then another, anxious to know 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 after church. Aleck was to be prayed for in church, my father told me; and he added 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 only child in such a time as this. And then he spoke to me of childish fears about death, and said that, for those who were safe in Jesus, death was a friend, and not an enemy; and that I must pray that, if it pleased God Aleck should never get well, he might go to the beautiful home prepared for all the children of God: and the firm grasp of my father's hand, and his clear, unhesitating voice, conveyed to my timorous, troubled heart, a sort of belief in a calm, sheltered haven, that might succeed in time to the outside tossings on stormy waters, and I felt comforted, though I scarcely knew how.
Mr. Morton, our clergyman, was away for a month's holidays, and it was a stranger who performed the service. When I heard the prayers of the congregation requested for "Alexander Ringwall Gordon, who was dangerously ill," it seemed almost more than I could bear, the long formal enunciation of his name sounding so terribly like a death-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 of them agreed with my own feelings, how many things there were in the service that were exactly what I wanted. Hitherto the singing had appeared 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 really sin-burdened conscience, the sweetest music seemed as nothing in comparison with the assurance that a broken and contrite spirit would not be despised of God, or to the comfort of ranking myself unreservedly amongst the miserable sinners in the Litany—concerning whom I had hitherto only wondered, Were they so miserable after all?—and pleading alike with voice and heart for God's mercy, of which I felt myself to stand so sorely in need.
The Commandments were being read when the little door leading into our large family-pew was opened, and Rickson softly came in and whispered to my father, who in his turn leant over and whispered to me. A message had come from the house, he said, and he must go back at once; he knew I could be trusted to stay by myself and walk home afterwards. He and Rickson quietly slipped out, and I was left sole tenant of the large square pew, with its high partition, and ponderous chairs, and fire-place, and table, just like a small room, as is the custom in old-fashioned churches.
Very lonely indeed I felt, as I stood up by myself, and tried to join in the 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 no single individual could be seen—it had never struck me before, with my own dear parents always at my side. Presently the clerk appeared opening the door of the pulpit—that at all events I could see—to the strange clergyman, who seemed to me to look with a searching glance of inquiry straight down into my solitary domain, as if he meant to call me to account for being there all alone.
Having nobody to look at as an example, I sat myself timidly upon a corner of one of the chairs after the hymn was over, and then, suddenly remembering I had made a mistake, knelt down with the colour mounting to the very roots of my hair, and a terrible sense of the congregation all looking at me and taking notes of my behaviour.
We smile at our childish embarrassments as we look back upon them, but they are very serious and real troubles whilst they last.
When I rose from my knees, I was far too shy to place myself comfortably, but sat, as before, upon a little corner of a chair, and hoped the congregation wouldn't take any notice, whilst mentally I prepared myself for unrestrained meditation on the all-engrossing subject of my thoughts, in place of the many speculations with which I was wont to beguile sermon-time in general.
For here I must pause to observe that Mr. Morton's sermons were usually entirely beyond my childish understanding, and attention to them on my part was practically in vain; so that after learning the text by heart, which I was always expected to repeat perfectly afterwards, I used to spend a great part of the time remaining to me in a minute survey of all objects falling within the limited range of my observation, including especially the monumental tablets, of which there were many on the church walls; those on the right being for the most part to the memory of the Grants of Braycombe; those on the left to the successive rectors of Braycombe parish, who had lived and died after what seemed to me boundless periods of ministry amongst their attached flock.
Two of these tablets in particular had supplied much food for consideration in my early days.—I used to look back upon early days even at ten years old with a sort of affectionate patronage.—These tablets exactly corresponded with each other in size and position, and were both beyond the range of complete legibility, only words in capitals coming out distinctly. But these very words in capitals were the cause of my anxious meditations. For on the one hand I read the name of the "Rev. Joseph Brocklehurst, Rector," with, a line or two further down, "Mary, wife of the above;" whilst on the other, which was to the memory of my grandfather, my own name at full length, "William Preston Grant," was underneath the only other word I could distinguish, and that word was "Below." Many a Sunday did I ruminate upon the unpleasant contrast which, to my mind, was suggested by the two prepositions between the present condition of the Rev. Joseph Brocklehurst and that of my grandfather; and it was not without some hesitation that I revealed my perplexity to my father at last, by the abrupt inquiry, one day on our way home from church, whether my grandfather had been a very wicked man. Greatly surprised were both my parents at this unlooked-for question, and I believe not a little amused at the train of reasoning which had led me to it; but they took an early opportunity of taking me into the church, not on a Sunday, and permitting me to go near to the tablets, pointing out the connecting words which were not legible, and which supplied a full explanation of all that I wanted to know, and showing me that the below referred to the position of the family vault under the church, and the above to the relative position of the Rev. J. Brocklehurst's name to that of his wife.
Often after that explanation I thought, as I looked at the tablets, of the words my father said to me at the time: "Willie, there are many things 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 see in part—as you did the inscriptions—but then we shall see face to face, 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. Under the name and date of birth and death of the person it commemorated were the words, "Prepare to meet thy God." I spent a long time looking for them in my Bible, and thought a great deal about the verse when I had found it; wondering whether the young midshipman, son of one of the rectors, upon whose monument it had been engraved, had thought about them too, or whether it was a sort of warning because he had not prepared. It was upon this latter train of thought, with reflections concerning Aleck and myself woven into it—I clearly not prepared, and wondering whether Aleck was prepared—that I found myself starting as I settled shyly upon my little corner of the chair, and looked timidly for my Bible in order to find the text.
What was my surprise when Psalm lxvi. 18 was given out, and the well-known words, so often repeated to myself, were repeated slowly and impressively by the stranger clergyman from the pulpit—"If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."
It seemed to me so wonderful and so strange that he should have fixed upon the very passage that I had thought of so often within the previous two days, that at first I almost fancied I was dreaming. But I felt still more surprised when, after anxiously attending to what was said for a few minutes, I found the sermon was as easy to understand as my mother's conversation after a Bible reading: all inattention was gone, and for the first time in my life I was listening with interest deep and anxious, whilst the clergyman, in simple language, explained the text so clearly that not one in the church need have gone away uninstructed.
The great question that I wanted to hear answered was, Whether, in my circumstances, with an unconfessed sin lying heavily on my heart, it was of any use for me to pray to God for Aleck?—what was the exact meaning of regarding iniquity in my heart?
The very first words of the sermon landed us in the midst of the question. "Unforgiven sin," said the clergyman, "is a barrier between our souls and our God." And presently afterwards he referred us to Isaiah 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 to a 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 of blood." Then he spoke to the congregation of the many Sundays during which they had come together to worship, whilst in the case of many of them their lives were unsanctified, their religion for one day in seven only, not for the whole week;—they loved their sins and would not give them up on any account, hoping to square their account with God by an outward attendance on Divine worship. It was all put in very simple language; and we were told to look back into one week of our lives to find out whether we were fighting against sin as an enemy, or cherishing sin as a friend: and if living in sin, as servants of Satan, we had the solemn truth to lay home to our consciences that our prayers never reached heaven; the promise, true for the children of God, that he would hear and answer prayer, was not true for those who were the servants or slaves of sin.
Then there was an appeal to those who felt conscious of sin and wished for forgiveness, and I felt I belonged to that class, and listened with increasing eagerness. Was it for them to say, "I must then reform my ways 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," was heard and answered. Christ's invitation was addressed to the weary and heavy laden, "Come unto Me." He died to take our punishment instead of us; and those who, instead of cherishing sin, felt it a burden too heavy for them to bear, were to bring it and lay it down at the foot of the 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 adopt habits of rectitude, and would make restitution when possible. Those who had uttered falsehoods would no longer persist in untruthfulness, but would speak the whole truth, even if to their own cost. And all this would be because Christ had forgiven them, and not in order to obtain forgiveness. I do not remember the rest of the sermon, but just at the end there was a beautiful piece about the happiness of finding the great barrier gone:—Just as when a little child, conscious of some wrong action, feels ashamed to meet the eyes of its loving parents, and is conscious of a separation that casts a dark shadow over all the usual home happiness, at last, with repenting heart and quivering voice, whispers in the loving ears of father or mother the secret trouble that lies heavily upon the sin-burdened conscience, and in the tender embrace of forgiveness finds pardon and peace: so with the sinner who has found peace 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, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will and it shall be done unto you."
Before I left the church, and took my solitary walk home through the wood, I had made up my mind to confess all to my parents at the very earliest opportunity; and with this determination there was already a sense of relief.
But the opportunity did not occur so soon as I had expected; for I found a solitary dinner awaiting me, and the whole of that long afternoon, except for the servants, who brought a message once or twice from the sick-room to the effect that my parents dared not leave even for a minute, I was quite alone, either sitting on the hearth-rug by the fire, or standing at the door listening for any footstep on the passage up-stairs, or even the opening or shutting of doors.
At last, at about five o'clock, I heard my father coming softly down-stairs, and sprang to meet him. "Papa, papa, tell me, is Aleck better?"
"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. You must be very quiet indeed, and speak very gently."
I felt the tears coming hot and fast, and there was a terrible choking in my throat; but it was impossible to hold out one moment longer, and, struggling through my sobs, I gasped out, "Oh, papa, I have killed him!—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 the purport of my broken utterances, whilst I tried, and tried in vain, to control 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 him until you are quite calm, Willie, and yet the moments are precious: keep what you have to say until another time, and try to stop crying; I shall have 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 led me by the hand up to Aleck's room.
"Wish me good-bye," I said over and over to myself. Such a long good-bye, how could I bear it!
There was no one else in the room at the moment but my mother, who sat at the foot of the bed with something in her hand for Aleck. It was not until I had advanced nearly to the bed that, with tear-blinded eyes, I could distinguish my cousin's face. It was so deadly pale that I started at the sight; but though pale and wan he was perfectly conscious, and as I drew near he whispered softly,—
"I'm so glad you've come, Willie—I wanted to see you, and wish you good-bye." There was a pause, and then more faintly he continued,—"I want to be quite sure you've forgiven me, Willie;—Jesus has; I've asked him."
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 would break, and longing to be able to say but one word, that Aleck might know it was I who asked his forgiveness, but longing in vain.
"You forgive me quite, Willie," murmured Aleck again.
