“It is that he is accustomed to visit a poor old friend, Will Aylmer, who lives in the hovel on the hill.”
“Will Aylmer!” repeated the doctor, as though the name were familiar to him. And well might it be so, for the feeble old man had in years long past served as gardener to his father; and many a time had the little Merton received flowers from his hand, or been carried in his arms, which then were sturdy and strong.
Dr. Merton now examined his patient, and the poor mother read from the doctor’s looks, rather than from his words, that he entertained little hope of her son’s recovery. As he quitted that home of sorrow, Dr. Merton sighed from mingling feelings.
“I fear that poor Robin is near his last home,” thought he; “and yet why should I fear, since I believe that for him it will be but an earlier enjoyment of bliss! He has shamed me, that poor peasant boy! Even in his delirium he is thinking of another; he is struggling to rise from the bed of death to go on his wonted visit of kindness to his own and his father’s friend! and I, blessed with means so much larger than his, have for thirty long years neglected, nay forgotten, the old faithful servant of my family! I shall look upon poor Will Aylmer as a legacy from Robin. He has done what he could for his friend during life; and by his dying words—if it please God that he should die—he shall have done yet more for the old man.”
For three days Robin continued in an alarming state, and his mother never closed an eye in sleep. Love and fear seemed to give her weak frame strength to support any amount of fatigue; or, as she said, it was the goodness of the Almighty that held her up through her bitter trial. On the fourth morning Robin sank into a deep sleep. She gazed on his features, pale and death-like as they were; for the red flush of fever had all passed away, and he lay motionless, silent, but with that peaceful look which often remains when the spirit has departed. A terrible doubt flashed upon the mother’s mind, a doubt whether all were not over! She approaches her son with a step noiseless as the dew, the light feather of a bird in her hand. She holds it near to his lips—his breath has moved it!—no! that was but the trembling of her fingers! She lays it on the pillow, her heart throbbing fast—is that the morning breeze that so lightly stirs the down? No; thank God, he still breathes!—he still lives!
Mrs. Peters sank upon her knees, buried her face in her hands, and once more implored Him who had compassion on the desolate widow of Nain, to save her beloved son; “But, O Lord,” she added, with an almost bursting heart, “if it be Thy will to remove him to a happier world, give me grace not to murmur beneath the rod, but to say humbly, ‘Thy will be done.’”
As she rose from her knees she turned her eyes towards her son, and they met his, calmly, lovingly fixed upon her, with an expression, oh how different from that which they had worn during the feverish excitement of delirium! “You were praying for me,” he said, very faintly; “and the Lord has answered your prayer!” The deep joy of that moment would have overpowered the mother, had it not been tempered by a fear that this improvement might be but as the last flash of a dying lamp, and that the danger was not yet over.
But from that hour Robin’s recovery rapidly progressed, and the fever never returned. He was weak, indeed, for many a long day; his vigorous arm had lost all its powers—he had to be fed and supported like a child. But it was a delight to Mrs. Peters to do everything for him, and to watch his gradual improvement in strength. Nor, poor as she was, did she ever know want while her son was unable to work. All the neighbourhood seemed pleased to do something for Robin—to help him who had been so ready to help others. The squire’s lady sent wine and meat from her own table; the clergyman’s wife brought him strong broth; the farmer, his master, supplied him with bacon and eggs; and many a neighbour who had little to give yet joyfully gave of that little.
SEEKING THE LORD.