CHAPTER XVIII.
When Richard Clifton awoke from that slumber, an expression of calmness rested upon his countenance. It was plain that deep despondency was no longer pressing upon his heart. His strength slightly increased, so that, on a very mild day for the season, the brothers once more sat beneath the walnut which had shaded their sports in childhood. The direction which was given to their conversation by Richard was most gratifying to his brother. They spoke of the blessed example and pious teachings of their sainted father. Henry was astonished to find how deeply those teachings had been engraven on his brother's memory. The toils and cares of a life spent in neglect of them had not obliterated them. The interest with which he dwelt upon them led to the hope that they had now something more than a place in his memory.
"Is it not too much to believe," said Richard, in the course of their conversation, "that one whose manner of life has been so different from his"—alluding to their father—"should leave the world in peace and meet him in a better one?"
"We are to believe the declarations of Holy Writ—its promises as well as its denunciations."
"True, that is the only thing that can enable one to look into the narrow house without a shudder. How mistaken are those who suppose life is not lost, provided there is peace at its close! I have hope for the future; but I still feel that I have lost my life."
Henry's heart was too full to allow him to make any reply to his brother's declaration.
"We have passed many happy days in our youth under the shade of this tree. We shall never sit together here again."
"We may."
"I am nearer the close of my journey than you are aware. I am warned by a feeling here," laying his hand on his heart, "to regard every day as my last."
"It gives me inexpressible joy to hear you speak thus composedly respecting the trying hour."
"Brother, I should like to see Margaret Gray before I die." A smile was upon his countenance as he spoke thus, but deep earnestness in his tones.
"I will go and see her, and make known your request. She will not fail to grant it, I am sure."
"Tell her I wish to see her as Margaret Gray. Help me now to my room, when I have taken one more view of this scene, from which I do so earnestly wish I had never departed."
He gazed for some moments on the landscape which had delighted his youthful vision, and entered the dwelling with a tear in his eye and a smile upon his lips. Henry repaired at once to the lone dwelling of the widow, and made known to her his brother's request.
"I never expected to meet him again in this world. I cannot disoblige him; nor would I fail to comply with his wishes; and yet I had rather not meet him."
"He has but a few days to live. You have forgiven him; and I trust He, to whom we must all look for forgiveness, has done the same."
"If that be the case, I shall be glad to meet him. I supposed he had chosen his portion, and that it would be said of him, as of the rich man of old, 'Son, thou hast had thy good things;' and yet I could never fully believe that the child of so many prayers, the child of so faithful a father, could perish at last; though I know that to his own Master must each one stand or fall—that each one must give account of himself to God. I will go with you at once."
When Mrs. Larned entered the room in which Richard Clifton was lying upon a sofa, being too feeble to rise, he lifted up his voice and wept. He extended his hand, which was taken in silence by Mrs. Larned, who sat down by his side and wept with him.
"Margaret," said he—the word caused her to start as though a sword had pierced her—"you have come to forgive me?"
"I have nothing to forgive. It is long since I had anything laid up against any human being. I pitied you, and prayed for you; but I never had anything laid up against you."
"I have always done you the justice to think so. I knew you were incapable of cherishing unkindness towards any one, however unkindly you may have been treated. You have been happy, and I have not. Do you remember the time we last walked together by the streamlet that flows from the rock spring?"
"I do."
"I enjoyed more happiness in that walk than I have enjoyed in the possession of all my wealth."
"I should be ungrateful if I were to say that I have not been happy; though I have had many trials. I learned long ago not to look for happiness here, but to prepare for it hereafter."
"You have been what men call poor; but you have been far richer than I have been. You have had treasures of the heart. You did not marry till you had a heart which you loved as Margaret Gray was capable of loving; and you have a noble boy."
"Richard Clifton is still, in part at least, what he once was!"
"You believed me changed into stone, or a bale of goods?"
"I certainly believed you changed. I supposed that you had taught your heart to love that alone which you had made the chief object of your pursuit."
"I tried to do so. I tried to persuade myself that I had done so. I habitually used language which implied I had succeeded. I deceived others; I could not deceive myself. I felt that I was not happy, despite all my efforts to persuade myself that I was. I then tried to persuade myself that I was not less happy than others. I have been acting a part ever since I left this place. I have been unhappy, and I deserved to be unhappy."
"God makes abundant provision for the happiness of his creatures."
"For time and for eternity. I have failed to avail myself of that made for the former; I hope I shall not fail in respect to the latter. And yet what right have I, who have caused much unhappiness and so little happiness to others, to expect it hereafter?"
"None of us can enter heaven of right, but through mercy and the merits of another."
"I wish your son had come with you. I wish to see him and Susan together, and to charge them to hold the treasures of the heart in higher estimation than all other treasures. I am sure they will do so. It is a great comfort to me to know that my beloved Susan is to marry the son of Margaret Gray."
"Horace will come and see you to-morrow," said she, rising and extending her trembling hand. "I must not stay longer."
"Do not go yet."
"You are becoming exhausted."
"Read to me," pointing to the book.
She took the book and turned to a suitable portion.
"Sit where I can see your countenance, if you please."
She could not refuse his request. He gazed upon her as she read, in tones which called vividly to remembrance those of other days, a consoling portion of the Words of Him who brought life and immortality to light. She then rose, wiped away a tear, silently pressed his hand, and withdrew.
Horace called the next morning, but did not receive the expected charge. During the silence of the night, Richard Clifton had ceased to be an inhabitant of earth.
(To be continued.)
