THE SCENE CHANGES.
An arrangement having been made by a few of the gay young people of Aston to go to a public ball, Miss Denham yielded to the solicitations of Mr. Ryder, her betrothed husband, and promised to go with them, though not without a slight degree of reluctance. After she had given her consent, on casually seeing the Rev. Mr. Ingleby, as she was returning from a morning walk, his sermon on the loss of the soul was brought so forcibly to her recollection, and it revived so powerfully the disquieting emotions which it produced at the time she was listening to it, that she said to her mamma, "I think I ought not to go; the thought of going makes me feel quite unhappy." However, the entreaties and persuasions of her mamma and Mr. Ryder prevailed, and she accompanied the party. It was a fine evening when they set off, and they were all in great glee; but on their return, the night had become so dark and stormy that it was with difficulty they reached home. The next morning Miss Denham complained of a slight cold, and it was thought proper that she should keep her room during the whole of the day. On the following day she felt somewhat unwell, but not ill; and as there were a few select friends engaged to tea and cards, she dressed, and appeared amongst them. She was gay and sprightly, but the dew of health was gone from her countenance; her eyes did not sparkle with their usual lustre; and all received an impression, from her general appearance, that some fatal disease had seized her, though no one had courage enough to mention it.
After the party broke up she became somewhat worse; but as there never had been much illness in the family, her parents did not send for medical assistance, supposing that she had merely taken a cold, from which she would soon recover. Her mamma sat by her bedside till midnight, when she left her in a sweet sleep, having commissioned her favourite servant to watch her through the night. About three in the morning she became restless, awoke, and asked for some water, which she drank with avidity, and then slumbered on for the space of another half-hour. She awoke again, and asked for more water; complained of its being bitter, and uttered some incoherent sentences, which induced the servant to call up her parents. She became composed again; slept rather more soundly; but about five she again awoke, and seeing her mother, she said, "I have had a very strange night—I have seen strange sights, and heard strange sounds—I am very ill—I ought not to have gone to the ball—I knew better—I should not like to pass from the theatre to the judgment-seat of Christ!"
"O, my dear, do not suffer your mind to be so distressed. It was a very unfavourable night; but I hope it will please the Almighty to restore you to health very soon. Your papa has sent William for Dr. Bailey, and we expect him here every minute."
At length, after two hours' long suspense, the trampling of the horses announced the approach of the doctor, who was soon introduced to her by her tender-hearted father. He made a few inquiries—examined her pulse—looked grave—and then abruptly retired below, followed by both her parents, who felt anxious to know his opinion, yet dreaded to ask him for it.
"Miss Matilda," he said, "is very ill—she must be kept very composed. I will send her some medicine, which she must take immediately, and I will see her again about noon."
"Is there any danger, Sir?"
"There is, Madam, always some danger attendant on such a violent seizure; but I see no great reason to apprehend a fatal issue."
The doctor's directions were strictly adhered to; but the fever continued to rage with even greater violence, and she became delirious. Occasionally she gave utterance to half-formed sentences, which indicated that she sometimes thought herself listening to a sermon on the loss of the soul, and at other times enjoying the gaieties of fashionable life. Often did her father, with hurried steps, walk up and down the lane, between the hours of twelve and two, to look for the doctor; and just as he was sending William to hasten his return, he saw him coming. After the second interview with his patient, her mother ventured to say, "Do you think, Sir, the dear creature is dying?"
"Why, no, Madam; she is still very ill, but not worse than when I saw her in the morning. She may recover, and I hope she will; but everything depends on her being kept composed."
"But, Sir, she is at times very delirious, and utters sayings frightful to hear."
"That must not astonish you; it proceeds from the nature of the complaint; it is a painful but not a dangerous symptom. I want to subdue her fever, and if I can do that, we have nothing to fear. I will see her again in the evening."
She continued during the afternoon much the same, but towards evening was more composed; she recognized her mother, and conversed a little with her; complained less of pain and of thirst, and was so much revived that the doctor said, on leaving her, that he had very little doubt that she would recover. During the four following days there was no perceptible change, but on the turn of the seventh day the fever left her. As the doctor had been very particular in recommending her parents to keep up her spirits, to prevent her ruminating on the subject of religion, her mamma occasionally read to her some passages from the most amusing books she could procure, and generally passed away the dull and tedious hours of the evening at cards. But though she had regained her vivacity, and talked with her accustomed ease on the past scenes of her life, and the prospects which futurity opened up to her ardent fancy, yet she gradually became weaker and weaker, which convinced her physician that some incipient disease was undermining the vigour of her constitution; yet he did not despair of her final recovery.
But though for a while some flattering symptoms gave promise of returning health and vigour, yet at length it became evident that death was lurking in ambush, and that the gay and accomplished Matilda must die. One physician was called in after another, and every expedient which human skill could devise was resorted to; but no power could arrest the progress of the flattering yet fatal disorder which was gradually wasting away her life. As soon as she was informed that there was no hope of her recovery, she requested to be left alone till she rang the bell. On this request all went below, and sat for some time weeping together. "She is now," said her father, "making her peace with God; let no noise be heard; this work requires stillness; may heaven bless her in the act." The bell rang; her anxious mother, on approaching her bedside, perceived she was in a state of extreme agitation, and her voice faltered as she said, "I fear, ma', I am not fit to appear before the judgment-seat of Christ. I wish to see some clergyman who will bring words of peace to my soul."
"That's very proper, dear. I'll send for Mr. Cole, who will, I am sure, and with great satisfaction, give you the sacrament, and then you will make your peace with God."
"Yes, mamma; he gave it to Amelia Stubbs when she was dying, and she told me that she dreaded death after she had taken the sacrament as much as she did before it was given to her; she told me that giving the sacrament and absolution to fit a person for dying is a great delusion. I now feel, ma', that I have been living under the spell of a fatal delusion; but I cannot consent to die under it. Will you send for Mr. Ingleby?"
"Mr. Ingleby!" said the astonished mother.
"Yes, ma'; he spoke words of comfort to Amelia Stubbs when she was dying, and he may bring some words of comfort to my troubled soul. Send for him immediately. I have not long to live, and I wish now to turn the current of my thoughts towards the other world."
"I hope," said the weeping father, on Mrs. Denham's entrance into the parlour, "our dear Matilda feels her soul happy."
"O no! she is not happy. Her soul is in trouble. She says that she is not fit to appear before the judgment-seat of Christ."
"What makes her think this?"
"It is the remembrance of some question she once heard Mr. Ingleby put when he was reading his sermon."
"Did she ever tell it you?"
"Yes; many times of late."
"Do you recollect it?"
"Yes; it was this—'Should you like to go from the theatre to the judgment-seat of Christ?'"
"And who would? Perhaps that question was the Almighty's warning voice speaking to her soul."
"She wishes to see the Rev. Mr. Ingleby, and requests that he may be sent for immediately."
"Yes, I'll send for him at once, since she desires to see him. He is a good man, and has made many happy in their last hours, and I hope he will bring words of peace to the troubled spirit of our dear dying child."
As the news of Miss Denham's approaching dissolution spread through the parish, many wept, and many sent to inquire after her; but none were more deeply affected than the Stevenses and the Roscoes. Though they had often sent, and often called, yet they had not been permitted to see her more than once, and then she was flushed with the high expectation of a speedy recovery.
Mr. Denham at once sent a note to the Rev. Mr. Ingleby, informing him of the dangerous illness of his daughter, and of her desire to see him at his earliest convenience.
Mr. Ingleby was very soon with her; he found her seated in an arm-chair beside the fire, with a Bible open on the table before her; but she was too much excited to do more than extend her hand, sitting for some time nearly motionless, in pensive silence. There was a melancholy cast on her countenance, which formed a strong contrast to the brilliancy of her eye, and the beautiful though fatal hectic which flushed her cheeks. Her parents, after making some delicate allusions to her illness, and the depression of her spirits, withdrew, as she had requested to be left alone with Mr. Ingleby; and after they had left the room, she very frankly told him that she had sent for him to give her the benefit of his instructions and his prayers. "I have lived, Sir, a gay and a thoughtless life, but not a happy one. I have often felt dissatisfied with the sources of my gratification, and envious of the happiness of our friends at Fairmount; but never had resolution enough to abandon the objects of my pursuit, nor to seek theirs. It has now pleased the Almighty to put a stop to my career of folly and gaiety, and I know that in a few weeks, if not days, I shall die, and go into the eternal world; and I am not prepared for such an awful event."
"But what convinces you that you are not prepared to go into the eternal world; and how long have you entertained such a belief?"
"Ever since I heard you preach a sermon on the loss of the soul. Since then I have been unhappy, and often in terror."
"Do you remember any particular passage in the sermon which impressed and affected you?"
"O yes, Sir; one, which is fixed on my memory. It was this: 'Should you like to go from the theatre to the judgment-seat of Christ?'"
"To pass abruptly from such a scene of gay amusement into the eternal world would indeed be awful, but God in mercy has interposed to prevent it; and your present anxiety on the subject may be regarded as a favourable sign that he is dealing graciously with you. But as many are alarmed in the immediate prospect of death, and pray for mercy when they cannot continue longer in a course of folly and of sin, you will permit me to warn you against grasping at a premature hope, which may prove more fatal, because more deceptive, than the keenest feelings of anguish."
"O, Sir, I have no hope. My soul is deeply depressed; I cannot look back on the scenes of my past life without being amazed at my folly. Had I taken the warning which Amelia Stubbs gave me when she was dying, I had not gone to the theatre or the ball-room again; and then I had not been dying now."
"You knew her?"
"Yes, Sir; and I saw her when she was dying; and she told me she would rather die than live. And she besought me with tears, and in the sweetest tones of solicitude, to flee from the wrath to come. But I was infatuated, and I saw not my danger, nor did I understand the full import of her warning as I do now. I continued to follow the multitude, because custom led the way, and now I must die alone. But I am not fit to die."
"Why do you suppose that you are not fit to die?"
"Because I am a sinner; I always thought I was, when I ever thought on the subject, but now I feel that I am."
"And how long have you felt yourself a sinner?"
"O, Sir," and she wept as she spoke, "not till after I was informed of my danger; and this aggravates my misery, because I fear that it is a dread of punishment which disquiets my soul, rather than a true sorrow for my sins."
"Had you ever any convictions during your gay career that you were acting an unwise and a dangerous part?"
"O yes, often, Sir, very often; conviction would sometimes flash over my mind, with the vividness of lightning; but then it would soon go off again; and though I could not forget the impressions which it produced, yet I soon ceased to feel them."
"You informed me just now that while you were sometimes dissatisfied at your own pursuits, you often envied the superior happiness of our pious friends at Fairmount; but why did you envy them their happiness, when you could form no just conception of the nature of it?"
"It is true, Sir, I could form no conception of the nature of their happiness, but I knew they were happy—more happy without our fantastic sources of amusement than we were with them. I never retired from their society without being convinced that there was a Divine reality in true religion; and yet I could not imagine what it could be. The only idea I could form of it was going frequently to church, reading the Bible, praying, and living a virtuous life."
"Yes, my dear, there is a Divine reality in true religion, which, I hope, you will live to feel?"
"I cannot live, Sir, and I am not fit to die. My case is hopeless."
"No, my dear, it is not hopeless. I can repeat to you words which have comforted thousands, and I hope they will comfort you—'God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"
"But, Sir, after living such a vain life, may I venture to rely on his death for salvation, with a hope of obtaining it?"
"Yes, most certainly. Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners—those who feel they are sinners—and as soon as we feel our guilt and our degeneracy, we are not only fitted to come unto him for peace, and acceptance, and eternal life, but invited in the most tender and endearing terms. Hence he says, 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"
"O, Sir," she suddenly exclaimed, and her eye sparkled with delight, "these are the very words which gave comfort to dear Amelia Stubbs when she was dying, so she told me."
"And I hope they will give comfort to your soul. They are the words which Jesus Christ uttered when he was on earth, and addressed to sinners like you."
"But he does not speak them to me; if he did, then I should have comfort, because then I should have hope."
"He has had them inserted in the New Testament, and there you may read them; and as they are placed there for the comfort of sinners of all future times, you are authorized, when reading them, or hearing them repeated, to believe that he IS speaking to YOU, and as really as though you could hear him giving utterance to them."
"Then I will hope in his mercy and in his power; and yet I am almost afraid to hope. Had I felt some years, or even some months since what I now feel, I should have been preserved from the ensnaring influence of those fascinations which have opened for me a premature grave, and might, in the society of my esteemed friends, Mrs. Stevens and Miss Roscoe, have enjoyed a large share of happiness on earth."
"But you ought to be thankful to the God of all consolation that you have felt, in the eleventh hour, that degree of guilt, and that clear apprehension of danger, which has induced you to run for refuge to Jesus Christ to save you."
"Very true, Sir; and I do feel the emotion of gratitude to him springing up in my heart. It is a new emotion, and it is a very sweet one."
"You have often heard, when attending the services of the church, that Jesus Christ died on the cross to save sinners from perishing; did it never make any impression on your heart?"
"Yes, Sir, I heard it, but it did not impress my thoughtless mind. But now I see it and feel it. O, how wonderful, that the Son of God should bleed and die for such a guilty and worthless sinner as I now feel myself to be! And may I hope, dear Sir, without being guilty of presumption, that he will save me from perishing, and admit me into heaven?"
"You may; indeed, not to do so would be a sin, as it would be an impeachment of his integrity."
"Then I will hope, and will bless and praise his name with all my soul. I have been living under a fatal delusion, but I feel that I am under no delusion now."
"No, my dear, you are now brought into connection with realities,—sublime realities—realities which connect the two worlds, and which explain the mysteries of time, and open a free and a safe passage for the guilty and the worthless into eternity."
"May I now urge my last request, which is this—that ere you leave this house, you will try to impress on the mind of my dear parents the important truths which you have with such clearness made known to me."
The venerable man having given her his pledge that he would attempt to do so, then knelt down and prayed with her, and bade her farewell, yet intending to see her again. Immediately after Mr. Ingleby's departure she retired to rest, and slept the greater part of the night. In the morning, when her father drew near her bedside, and asked her if her soul was happy, she replied, "I am composed, but not perfectly happy. I have a hope that I shall not perish, and that I shall be saved; and this is as much as I can expect, and far more than I deserve. I shall now soon leave you, dear father; but before I go I have two requests to make, which I hope you will comply with. The one is this, that you and my dear mother will go and hear that holy man of God preach, who has brought words of comfort to my troubled soul. He understands what religion is, and will explain it to you more clearly and more perfectly than Mr. Cole can do. I once, in common with others, ridiculed his evangelical views of Divine truth, and turned the edge of satire against those who seek happiness in the consolations of the gospel; but now I am driven for peace and for hope to that very source. My other request is, that you will send my affectionate regards to Mrs. Stevens and Miss Roscoe, and say that I wish to see them as soon as they can conveniently come."
Mr. John Ryder, who had been unremitting in his attentions during her illness, and who was nearly frantic with grief in the prospect of parting with her, was waiting below; and when she was asked if he might see her once more, she replied, "I think not, it may disturb me; I am too near an eternal world to suffer my feelings to intermingle again with those objects on which they have been too strongly placed." But after a long pause she added, "Yes, let him come up. The parting scene, though painful, may be profitable." He entered the room, pale and dejected; and though his spirit could brave death in the high places of danger, yet now he was appalled—seeing her preparing for the tomb, instead of the altar. On approaching her bedside she extended her hand, and with a mild look and softened tone, she said, "We now part, but I hope not for ever. Death, which is now removing me, may soon call for you, and then I hope you will find that consolation in the death of a despised Saviour, which it has pleased God, very unexpectedly and undeservedly, to give to me." And then, after a mutual embrace, she drew back her hand, and concealed her face, as though her eyes were for ever closed on things visible and temporal.
The interview with her endeared friends, Mrs. Stevens and Miss Roscoe, gave a fresh excitement to her feelings; but it was one of pure and unmingled satisfaction. They conversed together with intense interest on the love of Christ, and the freeness of his salvation; but when any reference was made to the joys of the heavenly state, she merely expressed a hope that she might be permitted to join the innumerable throng, though doomed to remain unnoticed amongst them. As Mrs. Denham and the nurse were exhausted by excessive fatigue, having had no rest for several nights, Mrs. Stevens's and Miss Roscoe's kind offer to stay with her was accepted. It was evident to all that she could not continue long; for though there had been some favourable symptoms of recruited strength, yet for the last few days the disease had made very rapid progress, and when the physician took his leave, he said, "Be not surprised if a sudden change should take place." She slept through the first part of the night very composedly, but about three in the morning she became restless, and on being raised up in the arms of Miss Roscoe, she swooned for a few seconds, when she gradually revived, and expressed a wish to see her parents once more. She first kissed her mother, and bade her adieu, and then her father, and then her two female friends, and, last of all, her old nurse; and after a long pause she said, "I am dying, but not without hope of obtaining eternal life, through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ." She then gently reclined her head on the bosom of Mrs. Stevens, and breathed her last.
Thus died the once gay and thoughtless Miss Denham, bearing a testimony against the vanities of the world, which had ensnared her, and to the importance and excellence of the faith in Christ, which she had often made the theme of her ridicule. Had she felt the transforming power of the truth which on one occasion she heard fall from the lips of Mr. Ingleby, or had she given heed to the warnings which Amelia Stubbs, when dying, addressed to her, she might have lived, a comfort to her parents in their old age, and an ornament to society; and, at a distant period, she might have descended to the grave laden with the fruits of righteousness, and rich in the anticipations of hope. But as she chose to disregard them, and devote herself to the follies and amusements of gay life, she was called to taste the bitterness of death in the spring-time of her years; yet mercy spared her till she sought the redemption of her soul, through faith in the death of the Redeemer, while many are left in their last hours on earth to seek for enjoyment amidst scenes of folly, and then, when death comes, they pass into the eternal world, for which they have made no preparation. What consternation and horror will then seize them! A ceaseless storm of agony, which never abates, and from which there is no escape. O, reader,
"Be wise to-day, 'tis madness to defer."