Long was it before the unhappy man could trust himself to speak. At last, having sipped a little of a soothing mixture which Mr Harris had brought him, he turned his face towards his brother-in-law, who had now taken a seat in front of him on a three-legged stool, and said, “Shall I tell you why I sent to you, Mr Huntingdon?” Amos inclined his head. “It was,” continued the sick man, “because I have insulted you, deceived you, entrapped you, and threatened your life. That would be in most cases the very reason why you should have been the very last person I should have sent to. But I believe you are real. I believe you are a true Christian, if there is such a thing. I am not real. I am a sham, a cheat, a lie; my whole life has been a lie; my unbelief has been a lie. But, if there is truth in the Bible and in Christianity, I believe you have found it. I am sure that you are real and genuine. I felt it when I was deceiving you, and I feel it more and more the more I think about it. So, as I am told that it is part of the character of those who really take the Bible for their guide to return good for evil, I have sent to you.”
He had uttered these words in broken sentences, and now sank back exhausted. When he had recovered himself sufficiently to listen, Amos, deeply moved, said kindly and earnestly, “You did right, my poor friend, to send to me; and now I am here, I must see what I can do for you.”
“But, can you really forgive me?” said the other, fixing his dark eyes on his visitor. “Remember how I have behaved to yourself; remember how I have behaved to your sister. Can you really forgive me.”
Amos made no immediate reply, but, taking out of his pocket a small New Testament which he had purposely brought with him, read in a clear, earnest voice the parable of the unmerciful servant, and, when he had finished it, added, “How could I ever hope for forgiveness from God if I could not forgive the transgressions of a poor fellow-sinner against myself? Yes, my poor brother, I do freely forgive you; and oh, let me have the happiness of seeing you seek forgiveness of Him who has still a place in his heart and in his kingdom for you.”
The poor sufferer struggled in vain to conceal his strong emotion. Tears, sobs would burst forth. A violent fit of coughing came on, and for a time Amos feared a fatal result. But at length the sick man regained composure and a lull from his cough, and then said, with slow and painful effort, “It is true. I believe your religion is true. I cannot doubt it. It is real, for you are real. It is real for you, but, alas! not real for me.”
Amos was going to turn to another passage in his New Testament, but the other waved his hand impatiently. “No more of that now,” he said; “I have other things just at present on my mind. You know that I am a doomed man. The police are looking out for me; but I shall cheat them yet. Death will have me first. Yes, I am a dying man.—Of course she has not come with you. Perhaps you have not told her that you were coming. Well, it’s better she shouldn’t come; there’s fever about, and I have dragged her down low enough already. This is no place for her. But I shall not be here long to trouble any of you. Will you tell her that I am sorry for my past treatment of her? and keep an eye on the children, will you, as you have done? Oh, don’t let them come to this!” Here the unhappy man fairly broke down.
When he had again partially recovered, Amos begged him to keep himself as quiet as he could, adding that all might yet be well, and that he must now leave him, but would return again in a few hours.
Having sought the good Scripture reader, and ascertained from him that the medical man gave no hopes of the unhappy man living more than a few days, Amos at once confided to his host the sad story of his sister’s marriage and its consequences, and now asked his advice and help as to how he could make the remaining time of his brother-in-law’s life as comfortable as circumstances would permit. Mr Harris at once threw himself heartily into the matter, and before night the dying man had been tenderly conveyed from his miserable quarters to the Scripture reader’s own dwelling, where everything was at once done that could alleviate his sufferings and supply his wants.
That same evening Amos wrote to his sister in these brief words: “Orlando is dying. A few days will end all.” He purposely added no words of persuasion, nor any account of his interview with her husband and what he had done for his comfort; for he feared that any such account from himself might just steel her heart against any appeal, and make her rest satisfied with what another was doing for the man whom she had vowed to love in sickness as well as in health. He knew that his scrap of a letter must prove startling by its abruptness; but he had no wish that it should be otherwise. These startling words might rouse her to a sense of her duty; if they did not, he felt that nothing would.
Two days passed over. Orlando Vivian grew weaker and weaker, but was full of gratitude to Amos. He also listened with patience and respect when the Scripture was read to him or prayer offered by his side; but he made no remark at such times. It was on the morning of the third day after the patient’s removal to his new abode that a hired carriage drew up at the Scripture reader’s door, and, to Amos’s great pleasure and thankfulness, brought his sister. Yes, and he could tell by her greeting of him and by her whole manner that a new light had dawned upon her heart and conscience, in which the idol of self had been seen by her in somewhat of its true deformity. “Oh, dear Amos!” she cried, as she wept on his shoulder, “pardon me; pity me. I have been wrong, oh, very wrong; but I hope, oh, I do hope that it is not yet quite too late!” Fondly pressing her to him, her brother told her that she had his full and forgiving love; and then he gave her an account of what he had done since his arrival in Collingford, and told her that her husband was now in the same house as herself, and was receiving every attention and comfort. On hearing this, Julia Vivian would have at once rushed into the sick chamber, but Amos checked her, warning her of the effect such a sudden appearance might have on one in his exhausted and suffering condition. He must himself break the news of her coming gradually.