For a few minutes, however, she remained with her arm around me, and my head resting on her shoulder; and when, by degrees, I grew a little more calm, though it cost a fearful effort, I contrived to sob out my confession, and let her know how wicked I had been, and also how miserable. I could see it was a terrible shock to her when she grasped my meaning, and she did not attempt to disguise the pain it cost her. For the first time in my life I saw my mother shed tears. But the knowledge of my guilt seemed to add to her pity for me.
"My poor little Willie," she said; "you have indeed had a terrible load upon your heart; your punishment has come more quickly upon you and more heavily than sometimes happens: but remember there is One whose blood cleanses from all sin—the heavenly Father's ear is open to you, Willie, through Jesus, and you must get forgiveness where those who really seek it are never turned away."
"I wanted to tell Aleck, mamma, too; but I couldn't."
"There is no need to trouble Aleck about that now," said my mother sorrowfully: "the ship seems a little thing to him now, Willie; his thoughts are on the great things of eternity. It might agitate him, and it would not make him happier to know about it; but if you like I will tell him that you love him dearly, and are very sorry for everything you have ever done that may not have been kind."
Even this message, vague as it was, seemed better than none, and I thankfully endorsed it.
"But oh, mamma," I added, "do tell me that you think it just possible he may get well again. I think it will kill me if he does not."
"He is in God's hands, Willie," answered my mother, "and with God all things are possible; but I fear there is little hope of his getting any better. Dr. Wilson does not say there is no hope, but the other doctors quite gave him up. I do not hide it from you, my child, because it is easier to know the worst than to be in doubt and suspense; and God will help you—help us all—to bear it."
There were tears in my mother's eyes and a tremble in her voice as she said this, and as it rushed upon me all at once how greatly it must add to her trouble to know that I was the cause of it, my own grief seemed rekindled. She gently unclasped my hands, which were tightly locked around her.
"I must leave you now, my poor child," she said; "I cannot stay a minute longer away from Aleck;" and stooping down, she kissed me in spite of my wickedness, and went away up-stairs; whilst I, throwing myself upon the sofa, buried my head in my hands, and wept until, from sheer exhaustion, I seemed to grow quiet at last, whilst the day-light faded away, and the faint flickering of the fire-light produced mysterious shadows on the ceiling, and made the things in the room assume to my fevered imagination weird and fanciful shapes.
But there was a species of dim comfort in watching the fire; and a comfort, too, in spite of my misery, in the recollection that I had confessed my sin—that it was no longer a dread secret in my own sole keeping, but was shared by the strong, tender hearts, of my parents: and it seemed to come soothingly to my mind that now the barrier of sin might be taken away, and my heart rose once again in earnest prayer to God for forgiveness. Then I began to think about the great things of eternity my mother had spoken of; and of the meeting-time for those who were parted on earth, of Aleck, and of Old George, and his son—Ralph's father; and of what Groves said about the open book; and then came the recollection of the sea-stained little Testament, and the quaint verse at its beginning, and the young sailor's profession of faith, "Father, He died for me, I must live for Him." My mind travelled from one thought to another, whilst ever and anon a struggling sob for breath seemed like the subsiding of a tempest. Shaping themselves into more or less definite plans, came thoughts, too, of the future before me in this world:—I should never be quite happy any more, I thought; but I would try to keep on, like Ralph's father, living for Christ in some way, and grow up to be very good—perhaps I should be a missionary—I was not quite sure on the whole what sphere of life would be the most trying or praiseworthy—and then at last Aleck and I would meet in heaven. This I believe to have been the last point of conscious reflection, for more and more vague and desultory became my thoughts afterwards. Nature would have her revenge for all the restlessness and anxiety of the past few days. I fell into a profound sleep.