The One Moss-Rose

by Philip Bennett Power

"Don't call it worthless, Master James; 'twas God's creature, and very beautiful while it lasted; and you can't call a thing worthless that gave a human being as much pleasure as that rose gave poor Jacob. But whatever it was, it will make no hindrance to Jacob meeting you in heaven,—ay, and welcoming you there, too. If you reach that happy place, I'll be bound Jacob will meet you with a smile, and will welcome you with a song into the happy land."

"Well, 'tis hard to understand," said James Courtenay.

"Yes, yes, Master James, hard to our poor natures, but easy to those who are quite like their Saviour, as Jacob is now. When He was upon earth he taught his followers to forgive, and to love their enemies, and to do good to such as used them despitefully; and we may be sure that, now they are with him, and are made like him, they carry out all he would have them do, and they are all he would have them be. I don't believe that there is one in heaven that would be more glad to see you, Master James, than my poor boy,—if I may call him my poor boy, seeing he's now in glory."

Many were the conversations of this kind which passed between old Leonard and the young squire, and gradually the latter obtained more peace in his mind. True, he could never divest himself of the awful thought that he had been the immediate cause of his humble neighbour's death; but he dwelt very much upon that word "all," and Aggie repeated old Leonard's lessons, and by degrees he was able to lay even his great trouble upon his Saviour.

But all that James Courtenay had gone through had told fearfully upon his health. His long and severe illness, followed by so much mental anxiety and trouble, laid in him the seeds of consumption. His friends, who watched him anxiously, saw that as weeks rolled on he gained no strength, and at length it was solemnly announced by the physician that he was in consumption. There were symptoms which made it likely that the disease would assume a very rapid form. And so it did. The young squire began to waste almost visibly before the eyes of those around, and it soon became evident, not only that his days were numbered, but that they must be very few. And so they were. Three weeks saw the little invalid laid upon his bed, with no prospect of rising from it again. At his own earnest request he was told what his condition really was; and when he heard it, not a tear started in his eye, not a murmur escaped his lips. One request, and one only, did the dying boy prefer; and that was, that Leonard Dobbin should be admitted to his room as often as he wished to see him. And this was very often; as James had only intervals of wakefulness, it became necessary that the old man should be always at hand, so as to be ready at any hour of the day or night, and at length he slept in a closet off the sick boy's room. And with Leonard came the old worn Bible. The good old labourer was afraid, with his rough hands, to touch the richly bound and gilt volume that was brought up from the library; he knew every page in his own well-thumbed old book, and in that he read, and from that he discoursed. The minister of the parish came now and again; but when he heard of what use old Leonard had been to the young squire, he said that God could use the uneducated man as well as the one that was well-learned, and he rejoiced that by any instrumentality, however humble, God had in grace and mercy wrought upon the soul of this wayward boy.

At length the period of the young squire's life came to be numbered, not by days, but hours, and his father sat by his dying bed.

"Papa," said the dying boy, "I shall soon be gone, and when I am dying I shall want to think of Christ and of holy things alone;—you will do, I know, what I want when I am gone."

Squire Courtenay pressed his son's hand, and told him he would do anything, everything he wished.

"You remember that grandmamma left me some money when she died; give Leonard Dobbin as much every year as will support him; and give him my gray pony that he may be carried about, for he is getting too old to work; and"—and it seemed as though the dying boy had to summon up all his strength to say it—"bury me, not in our own grand vault, but by Jacob Dobbin's grave; and put up a monument in our church to Jacob, and cut upon it a broken rose; and let the rose bush be planted close to where poor Jacob lies—"

The young squire could say no more, and it was a long time before he spoke again; when he did, it was evident that he was fast departing to another world. With the little strength at his command, the dying boy muttered old Leonard's name; and in a moment the aged Christian, with his Bible in his hand, stood by the bedside.