"Oh, no! you are not dying. We will not bring him such a long journey. I will stay with you, until you are better—but off the train you must get."
"Thank you! I will do as you say. I will pay you well."
"I am not thinking of 'pay.' I know your brother, it is pay enough to serve him, by helping you."
Robert nodded and tried to smile. He put his hand into the doctor's hand, went with him to a carriage, and they were driven to an hotel. During the change, he did not speak, he had all that he could manage, to keep himself erect and preserve his consciousness. But there are mystically in our faces, certain characters, which carry in them the motto of our souls; and the motto the doctor read on Robert's face was—No Surrender. He told himself this, when he had got his patient into bed, and surrounded him with darkness and stillness and given him a sedative. "Some men would proceed to have brain fever," he mused, "but not this man. He will fight off sickness, resent it, deny it, and rise above it in a few days. I'll give him a week—but he will not succumb. There's no surrender in that face, though it is white and thin with suffering."
For four days, however, Robert wavered between better and worse, as the gusts of frantic remorse and despair assailed him. Then he forgot everything but the irreparable mistake that had ruined his life, and during the paroxysms whispered continually: "Oh, God! oh, God! that it were possible to undo things done!" a whisper that could hardly be heard by mortal ears, but which passed beyond the constellations, and reached the ear and the heart of Him, who dwelleth in the Heaven of Heavens.
It was in one of those awful encounters of the soul with itself, that he reached the depth of suffering in which we see clearly; for there is no such revealer as sorrow. Suddenly and swift as a flash of light, he knew his past life, as he would know it in eternity—its selfishness, its cruelty, its injustice. Then he heard words which pealed through his soul, with heavenly-sweet convincingness, and left their echo forever there. For awhile he remained motionless and speechless, and let the comforting revelation fill him with adoring love and gratitude. And those few minutes of pause and praise were not only sacrificial and sacramental, they were strong with absolution. He knew what he must do; he had not a doubt, not a reservation of any kind. In a space of time so short that we have no measure for it, he had surrendered everything, and been made worthy to receive everything.
O, Mystery of Life, from what a depth proceed thy comforts and thy lessons! Even the chance acquaintance had had his meaning, and had done his work. Robert had some wonderful confidences with him, as he lay for a week free of pain, and quietly gathering strength for the journey he must take the moment he was able for it. He had no hesitation as to this journey. He knew that he must go back to Theodora—back to the same goal he had turned away from. Peradventure the blessing he had rejected might yet be waiting there.
In ten days Dr. Stuart permitted him to travel, and without pause or regret he reached San Francisco, refreshed himself, and taking a carriage drove out to the Newtons'. It was afternoon when he reached the place, and it had the drowsy afternoon look and feeling. He sent the carriage to the stable, and told the driver to wait there for further orders—and then walked up to the house. As he passed Mr. Newton's study he saw him sitting reading, and he opened the door and went in. The preacher looked up in astonishment, rose and walked towards him.
"Robert," he said softly, "is that you?"
"Yes, father. I have been very ill. I have come back to ask your forgiveness—and hers—if she will listen to me."