“I am not afraid either of poor accommodation or of infection,” said Amos. “I am come to do a work, and am safe in the Lord’s hands till it is done. He has sent me, and he will keep me.”
The Scripture reader grasped him warmly by the hand. “You shall lodge in my house,” he said, “if you can be satisfied with humble fare and my plain ways. I am not a married man, but I have a good old woman who looks after me, and she will look after you too, and you can come and go just as you please.”
“I will take you at your word, my friend,” said the other, “and will gladly pay for bed and board.”
“All right, all right,” cried Mr Harris: “and for my part I am not going to pry into your reasons for coming. You are one of the Lord’s servants on an errand of mercy and self-denying love—I can see that; and you are welcome to my services and my silence.”
Amos thanked him warmly, and his moderate luggage was soon deposited in the Scripture reader’s dwelling.
The next morning, after an early breakfast, the two friends—for true friends they at once became in the bonds of the gospel, loving Christ’s image in each other—set out for Orlando Vivian’s lodging.
“You must be prepared for something very miserable,” said the Scripture reader.
“I am prepared for anything,” said the other calmly. But truly Amos was staggered when he entered the room where sat, in the midst of gloom and filth, the man who had been the cause of so much distress to him and his. The atmosphere was oppressive with the concentrated foulness of numberless evil odours. A bed there was in the darkest corner of the room on the floor. It looked as though composed of the refuse raked from a pig-sty, and thrust into a sack which had been used for the conveyance of dust and bones. Bolster or pillow it had none, but against the wall, where the bed’s head was supposed to be, were three or four logs of rough wood piled together, over which was laid a faded cloak crumpled into a heap. Such was the only couch which the unhappy sufferer had to lay him down upon at night, or when weary of sitting in the high-backed, creaking armchair. Uncleanness met the eye on every side—in the one greasy plate, on which lay a lump of repulsive-looking food; in the broken-mouthed jug, which reeked with the smell of stale beer; in the window, whose bemired and cobwebbed panes kept out more light than they admitted; in the ceiling, between whose smoke-grimed rafters large rents allowed many an abomination to drop down from the crowded room above; in the three-legged table, which, being loose in all its decaying joints, reeled to and fro at every touch; in the spiders, beetles, and other self-invited specimens of the insect tribe, which had long found a congenial home in these dismal quarters. And there—worn, haggard, hungry, suffering, helpless—in the midst of all this desolation, sat the broken-down, shattered stroller, coughing every now and then as though the spasm would rend him in pieces.
The heart of Amos was touched at the terrible sight with a feeling of the profoundest pity, as he approached the chair occupied by the wreck of what might have been a man noble and good, loving and loved. Anything like resentment was entirely lost in his desire to alleviate if he could the misery he saw before him.
“I have brought a friend to see you,” said Mr Harris, stepping forward. The sick man raised his head slowly, and, as his eyes fell on Amos, he trembled violently, and clutched his chair with a convulsive grasp. Then a fit of coughing came on, and all were silent. “I will leave you together, if you please,” said the Scripture reader after a pause to Amos. “You know where to find me if I am wanted,” and he retired.