“Oh, rather remember what the High and Holy One has done and suffered for us both. Your heart is touched with feeling for me; you are grateful towards a poor worm of earth, and can you remain hardened and rebellious towards the merciful Saviour, who is now stretching out His arms to call you to Himself. Who is so ready to receive you, so ready to forgive, as He who has sacrificed His life, that you may live!”
The boy could make no reply; but the dying words then heard were branded on his soul, never to be forgotten while memory should endure.
“Come in, dear Clemmy; it is very kind in you to visit the sick-room,” murmured Ernest. Followed by Charles and Mr. Ewart, Clementina entered, mingled pity, fear, and awe on her face. Fontonore held out to his cousin his white, emaciated hand.
“You will be better soon, I trust,” faltered the young lady.
“Yes; I shall be with Christ, which is far better.”
“But it is terrible to leave all—so early—it seems so cruel! Ernest, you are too young for—for death!”
“Too young for happiness, my cousin? Do you remember our conversation in London; how I told you that none could be happy as the Christian, that there is no pleasure equal to what religion can give? I thought it then,” he cried, his voice strengthening, his eye kindling as he spoke; “I thought it then, Clementina, but I know it now! What is it to me that I bear the title of a peer, that this castle is mine, that men call me great—I must leave all, perhaps before the sun sets; I must leave all, and yet my whole soul is full of joy—joy beyond all that earth can ever bestow. I am passing through the river, but it does not overflow me; beneath are the everlasting arms—before me are the glories of the eternal city, where I shall see Him whom not seeing I have loved!”
There was a radiance upon the dying countenance that seemed not of earth but heaven. Clementina looked upon Ernest, wondering; and for the first time felt the littleness of the world, and the vanity of all that it can give.
“Where is my Pilgrim’s Progress?” continued Fontonore, more faintly. “Cousin, I have reserved it for you. When this frail body is laid in the grave, then read it, and think of one weak Pilgrim who trod the path to the Celestial City with feeble steps, too often, alas! turning aside from the way; yet on whom the Lord of Pilgrims had great mercy, whom the Saviour guided by His counsel here—and afterward—received—into glory!”