The room she occupied had a faded red curtain drawn along the further wall; she fancied she heard a low murmur as of some voice beyond it, and rose to see. The wall was a very thin partition which had evidently been put up in some emergency to make two rooms of one—immediately behind the curtain was a door standing ajar. Anne could see through into another room guarded like this by a curtain, placed there for some simple purpose of preventing a draft of air as it seemed, for each of the rooms had another door, and both entered from a gusty, windy gallery.
And there was a voice proceeding from that outer room—a solitary voice, low-toned, and strange—it was reading aloud as it seemed, although its owner was evidently alone. “Behold, Lord, the half of my goods I give to the poor, and if I have taken anything from any man by false accusation, I restore him fourfold.”—Anne glanced back to see that her patient slept; she was lying in a calm slumber, luxuriously peaceful, and at rest. The low voice went on:
“Not fourfold but sevenfold. Lord! Thou seest the offering in my hand. Thou who didst not reject this sinner of old times.—Thou who didst tread wearily that way to Jericho for this publican’s sake, who was a son of Abraham. Lord, Lord, rejectest Thou me?—seven for one—wherefore did I toil for them, but to lay them at Thy feet—seven saved for one lost. Oh, Thou blessed One, where are Thy tender mercies—Thy loving kindnesses—wilt Thou shut thy heaven only to me?”
There was a pause; the voice was broken and unsteady; the strange utterance passionate and solemn; it was resumed:
“Not thy heaven, unless it be Thy will—not Thy glory or Thy gladness—only Thy forgiveness, merciful Lord, only one uplifting of Thy reconciled countenance. There is no light. I grope in the noonday, like a blind man, I cannot see Thee—I cannot see Thee! Lord, I confess my iniquity before Thee. Lord, I restore Thee sevenfold. Look upon my offering—seven for one! I bring them to Thy feet—seven saved for one lost! Lord of all tenderness—of all compassion, Thou most merciful—most mighty—is it I—is it I? Wilt Thou reject only me?”
Anne stood fixed in silent, eager interest—she could not think of any evil in her listening. She was too deeply moved—too mightily concerned for that!
“Thou knowest the past. Thou, who ordainest all things, dost know these fearful years. Blood for blood. Lord, thou hast seen mine agonies—Thou knowest how I have died a thousand times in this fearful, blighted life: look upon mine offering—I bring thee back sevenfold. Lord of mercy, cast me not away for evermore!”
The voice ceased. Anne cast a tremulous glance from the edge of the curtain. He was sitting by a table, a Bible lying open before him. Large drops hung upon his thin, high forehead—his delicate features were moving in silent agonies of entreaty—a hot flush was on his cheek. He suddenly buried his face in his hands, and bowed it down upon the open Bible. Very fearful was this to see and hear! This living death of wakeful misery—this vain struggling to render with his own hands the atonement which he, of all men, needed most—while the great Evangel of divine love and tenderness, with its mightier offering and all-availing sacrifice, lay unapplied at his hands.
Anne drew back in awe and reverence, and carefully closed the door—it was not meet that she should pry further into the secret agonies of this stricken and sinful spirit, as it poured itself forth before its God. She returned to the bedside, her head throbbing with dull pain, her heart full of darkness and anguish. Was it true?—was it indeed true?—a haunting fear no longer, but a deadly and hopeless reality!
At intervals she heard the murmurings renewed, and watched in breathless anxiety then, lest her patient should wake—at length it ceased altogether. The young mother slept peacefully with her infant nestling in her arms—a strange contrast there was between the sleeper and the watcher—the one in delicious safety and rest, after deadliest peril—the other wading through a restless sea of grief and pain, to which there seemed neither shore nor boundary, involving agonies mightier than death.