The Story of the White-Rock Cove Part 13

The very first words of the sermon landed us in the midst of the question. "Unforgiven sin," said the clergyman, "is a barrier between our souls and our G.o.d." And presently afterwards he referred us to Isaiah lix. 2: "Your iniquities have separated between you and your G.o.d, and your sins have hid his face from you that he will not hear;" and to a long pa.s.sage in the 1st chapter of Isaiah, finis.h.i.+ng with the words, "When ye make many prayers, I will not hear: your hands are full of blood." Then he spoke to the congregation of the many Sundays during which they had come together to wors.h.i.+p, whilst in the case of many of them their lives were unsanctified, their religion for one day in seven only, not for the whole week;--they loved their sins and would not give them up on any account, hoping to square their account with G.o.d by an outward attendance on Divine wors.h.i.+p. It was all put in very simple language; and we were told to look back into one week of our lives to find out whether we were _fighting against_ sin as an enemy, or _cheris.h.i.+ng_ sin as a friend: and if living in sin, as servants of Satan, we had the solemn truth to lay home to our consciences that our prayers never reached heaven; the promise, true for the children of G.o.d, that he would hear and answer prayer, was not true for those who were the servants or slaves of sin.

Then there was an appeal to those who felt conscious of sin and wished for forgiveness, and I felt I belonged to that cla.s.s, and listened with increasing eagerness. Was it for them to say, "I must then reform my ways and make myself better before I can go to Christ for pardon?" Oh, no! The prayer of the publican, "G.o.d be merciful to me a sinner," was heard and answered. Christ's invitation was addressed to the weary and _heavy laden_, "Come unto _Me_." He died to take our punishment instead of us; and those who, instead of cheris.h.i.+ng sin, felt it a burden too heavy for them to bear, were to bring it and lay it down at the foot of the cross, and find rest to their souls.

There followed a few words about sins _forgiven_ being sins _forsaken_.

Any person who had been in the habit of dishonest dealing would adopt habits of rect.i.tude, and would make rest.i.tution when possible. Those who had uttered falsehoods would no longer persist in untruthfulness, but would speak the whole truth, even if to their own cost. And all this would be because Christ _had_ forgiven them, and not in order to _obtain forgiveness_. I do not remember the rest of the sermon, but just at the end there was a beautiful piece about the happiness of finding the great barrier gone:--Just as when a little child, conscious of some wrong action, feels ashamed to meet the eyes of its loving parents, and is conscious of a separation that casts a dark shadow over all the usual home happiness, at last, with repenting heart and quivering voice, whispers in the loving ears of father or mother the secret trouble that lies heavily upon the sin-burdened conscience, and in the tender embrace of forgiveness finds pardon and peace: so with the sinner who has found peace at the foot of the cross; the barrier of separation is no more; the way into the holiest is made manifest by the blood of the Atonement; and the promise is written in letters of gold, "_If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will and it shall be done unto you._"

Before I left the church, and took my solitary walk home through the wood, I had made up my mind to confess all to my parents at the very earliest opportunity; and with this determination there was already a sense of relief.

But the opportunity did not occur so soon as I had expected; for I found a solitary dinner awaiting me, and the whole of that long afternoon, except for the servants, who brought a message once or twice from the sick-room to the effect that my parents dared not leave even for a minute, I was quite alone, either sitting on the hearth-rug by the fire, or standing at the door listening for any footstep on the pa.s.sage up-stairs, or even the opening or shutting of doors.

At last, at about five o'clock, I heard my father coming softly down-stairs, and sprang to meet him. "Papa, papa, tell me, is Aleck better?"

"I fear not, my child," answered my father gently. "I think, Willie, that G.o.d is going to take him to Himself. But he is conscious just now, and wants to see you. He has asked that he may wish you good-bye. You must be very quiet indeed, and speak very gently."

I felt the tears coming hot and fast, and there was a terrible choking in my throat; but it was impossible to hold out one moment longer, and, struggling through my sobs, I gasped out, "Oh, papa, I have killed him!--it's all my fault!--oh! what shall I do?" and I clung, terror-stricken, to the hand which he had placed on my shoulder.

My father sat down, and tried to soothe me, putting his arm around me, and saying kind, comforting words, evidently at a loss to understand the purport of my broken utterances, whilst I tried, and tried in vain, to control my sobs, and regain sufficient composure to explain.

At last he said firmly,--

"This agitation would do Aleck grievous harm; I must not take you to him until you are quite calm, Willie, and yet the moments are precious: keep what you have to say until another time, and try to stop crying; I shall have to go up-stairs without you, unless you can be ready soon."

Then he gave me a gla.s.s of water, and still telling me not to speak, waited until I had mastered my emotion and was tolerably calm, then led me by the hand up to Aleck's room.

"Wish me good-bye," I said over and over to myself. Such a long good-bye, how could I bear it!

There was no one else in the room at the moment but my mother, who sat at the foot of the bed with something in her hand for Aleck. It was not until I had advanced nearly to the bed that, with tear-blinded eyes, I could distinguish my cousin's face. It was so deadly pale that I started at the sight; but though pale and wan he was perfectly conscious, and as I drew near he whispered softly,--

"I'm so glad you've come, Willie--I wanted to see you, and wish you good-bye." There was a pause, and then more faintly he continued,--"I want to be quite sure you've forgiven me, Willie;--Jesus has; I've asked him."

I bent forward and kissed the white face that lay so quiet and still, struggling to keep down my sobs, though I felt as if my heart would break, and longing to be able to say but one word, that Aleck might know it was I who asked his forgiveness, but longing in vain.

"You forgive me quite, Willie," murmured Aleck again.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WILLIE AT ALECK'S BED SIDE.]

But at the first attempt to speak, I broke down utterly, with such a burst of pent-up grief, that to control it was impossible, and I was hurried quickly out of the room, lest my emotion should be injurious to Aleck; my mother herself almost carrying me down-stairs, and sorely divided between the desire to stay and comfort me, and at the same time to remain at her post up-stairs with my cousin.

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 s.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d's hands, Willie," answered my mother, "and with G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sume 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 G.o.d 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.

CHAPTER X.

SUNDAY EVENING.

Where I was, why I was where I was, and what time of the day or night it might happen to be--were questions which presented themselves to my mind in hazy succession, as, roused from my slumbers by the hum of voices, I woke slowly to the consciousness that, though I had been asleep, I was not in bed. It was only by a very gradual process of recollection that the past came back upon me almost like a fresh story, and I was at least a minute rubbing my eyes, and collecting my thoughts, before I took in all the familiar objects in the room, from the sofa on which I found myself reposing, to the fire-place at which, with their backs turned to me, my father and Dr. Wilson were in close conversation. My father's voice was low and serious, and at the moment when, having finished the process of awakening, I was going to speak, his words came slowly and distinctly to my ears, and sank down into my heart:--

"The thought of his parents' grief on hearing of the death--such a death, too!--of their only child, has been almost more than I could bear."

Aleck was dead!--there was no hope left! I thought; and with a piteous exclamation of grief, I turned round and hid my face in my hands, leaning up against the sofa.

In another moment my father was at my side. I felt his arm encircling me as he drew me towards him, and bending down, whispered softly,--

"It is no time for grief now, Willie; I was speaking of what _might_ have been; let us give G.o.d thanks, for the danger is over--Aleck is spared to us."

I slowly drew back my hands from my face. The relief was so great I could scarcely believe in it; and I must have appeared--as I certainly felt--utterly bewildered, whilst I tried to find words, and only at last succeeded in repeating my father's mechanically:

"The danger is over--Aleck is spared to us."

"To be sure he is," said Dr. Wilson, in his cheeriest tones. He had got up from his chair, and was standing with his back to the fire looking at us. "Yes, he'll be quite well again by-and-by; and all the more prudent, we'll hope, for the trouble he's been putting us in during these last few days. He's had a lesson that ought to last for some time to come; but boys never learn their lessons, do what one will to make them."

There was a moment's pause after this discouraging general statement with reference to boys; and then the doctor added, as if thinking to himself, in quite a different tone:

"Poor boy! poor boy! it's been a very near thing. By the help of G.o.d, we've brought him through. May it be a life worth the saving--a life given back to G.o.d!"

"Amen!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed my father, earnestly; and then, at his suggestion, we knelt together, and, in a few heartfelt words, he offered thanks to the heavenly Father for his goodness to us, and turned kind Dr. Wilson's aspiration into a prayer, that the life given back to my cousin might be by him given back to G.o.d.

I knew, as I knelt there by my father's side, for the first time in my life, the feeling of a deep and speechless thankfulness, for which all words would be too poor.

It was very late--past ten o'clock--but I was not allowed to go up to bed at once. Supper was ready, my father said, and I should come into the dining-room, and have it with him and Dr. Wilson. Accordingly, in spite of all remonstrances of nurse, who put in her appearance, and thought fit to reflect upon the utter impropriety of such late hours, I went to supper; and felt, moreover, greatly refreshed and strengthened by it, sitting there close by my father's side, and rejoicing every moment of the time in the feeling as of a great deliverance.

So it came to pa.s.s that my second night did not begin until eleven o'clock.