CHAPTER XI.
THE SICK CHAMBER.
The sun had gone down, and the twilight was fast losing itself in night.The pale moon was struggling to look out upon the world through thedark, heavy clouds which had collected around, as if expressly toprevent this purpose. The hum of traffic in the street had ceased, andthe only sounds that came in at the open window were strains of music,and the confused clamour of voices from a neighbouring tavern. The roomwas a picture of neatness. The bed was draped in snowy furniture, andthe coverlid bore evidence of good taste and the ingenuity ofindustrious hands. The mantlepiece was adorned with a few photographsand a vase of fresh-gathered flowers.
Upon a table in the corner of the room stood a lamp, with a green shadeover it to screen the light from the bed. Beside it were bottles,phials, and other appliances of a sick chamber.
A group stood round the bed, watching, with thrilling anxiety, the faceof the doctor as he held the inanimate hand of George Weston.
You might have heard the ticking of his watch as he stood there andgazed in the face of the patient, while Mrs. Weston and Mr. Brunton andCharles Hardy waited motionless, almost breathless, to hear his verdict.
"It is a more serious case than I imagined at first," said the doctor;"I do not wish unnecessarily to alarm you, but it is my duty to say thatthe condition of the patient is one of great danger, but I trust notpast recovery."
"What is the nature of the illness--tell me candidly?" asked Mr.Brunton, when he could command speech.
"Brain fever," was the laconic answer.
For a long time George Weston lay in that awful state which is neitherdeath nor life--when the spirit seems to be hovering round the body,uncertain whether to wing its flight for ever from the tenement ofearth, or return to sojourn still longer in its old familiardwelling-house. Sometimes he would rave in the frenzy of madness, andthen sink in exhaustion with scarcely the power to draw a breath.
Never was a sick-bed tended with greater care than his. Night afternight Mrs. Weston sat beside him, bathing the fevered head and coolingthe parched lips. Nor would she leave that post for a moment, until Mr.Brunton was obliged to insist upon her taking rest.
"Reserve your strength," he said; "we know not what is before us; it maybe--but we have nothing to do with the future," he added, interruptinghimself; "that must be left in His hands."
Hardy was not able to remain in Plymouth longer than Wednesday. Mr.Compton had written to him to say that, being short of hands, he wasvery much pressed in business, and now that the main object of hisjourney had been attained--for Mr. Brunton communicated with him almostimmediately--he should be glad if he would return as soon as possible.
As he stood beside the bed of George Weston on the morning of hisdeparture, and gazed into those pale and haggard features, which hadalways beamed with a friendly smile for him, but which he might neversee again, he could not restrain the impulse of clasping his hand, anduttering solemnly the prayerful wish, "God preserve and bless you,George!"
The words were not heard by George--his ears were closed in dullinsensibility--but they were caught by Mr. Brunton and Mrs. Weston, whothat moment entered the room, and Hardy was startled to hear the earnestresponse to his prayer in their united "Amen!"
"And that prayer shall ever be offered for you, Charles," said Mrs.Weston; "I owe you a debt of gratitude which can never be repaid. Ishudder to think of what would have happened, had it not been for yourkind, noble, manly friendship. Poor George would have suffered in thislonely place, away from all who loved him, and without proper care,perhaps have died--died afoot."
"You do not know how thankful I feel, Mrs. Weston, that our efforts havenot been in vain. Pray write to me every day, to say how he is goingon--if it is only just one line; and should there be any change forthe--for the better, do let me know at once, that I may come down again,if only for a day, just to congratulate him."
"And if there is another change--a change for the worse?" asked Mrs.Weston, tearfully.
"Write, telegraph--pray let me know somehow," answered Hardy. "I couldnot bear to part with him without telling and showing him there was oneof his old friends who loved him to the last. Good-bye, dear Mrs.Weston; do not over-tax your strength, and keep up a good heart; dependupon it, there are yet happy days for you and for George."
Mrs. Weston sadly missed her young friend after his departure. Hishopeful spirits had helped to buoy up her expectations and assuage thesorrows of the present. It seemed as if the sun had hidden itself andthe stars had refused their light during those long days when the mothersat watching at the bedside of her son. Mr. Brunton tried in every wayto relieve her, but his own heart was heavy, and the two felt more athome in talking dolefully over the bad symptoms of the patient than inlooking forward to the future.
But a day came when the strength of the fever abated, and reasonreturned to her long vacant throne.
It was toward evening: Mrs. Weston was sitting beside the bed, busilystitching away at her work, and Mr. Brunton was resting his head uponhis hands as he turned over the pages of a book which he was trying todeceive himself into the belief he was reading, when a deep sigh causedthem both to suspend their occupation.
George raised himself up in bed, and gazed round the room. Thefurniture screened the two watchers, and he fancied himself alone. Heraised a pillow at his back, and reclining upon it in the placid calm ofexhaustion, with his face turned toward the open window, watched theclouds as they crossed the blue expanse, and indulged in a halfconscious reverie. Where had he been? Where was he? Had he passed thedark valley of the shadow of death, and were there angel forms in thosesnow-white clouds beckoning him away? What was that confused sound whichrang in his ears? Was it the murmuring of the dark stream as it washedupon the untrodden shore?
No: there was the little room where he had taken his lodgings; there wasthe green paper on the wall with the large grape clusters; there was thesound of human voices in the street And the consciousness that he wasalive, restored, flashed upon him with something of the bewilderingastonishment and joy which Lazarus must have felt when he heard thewords, "Come forth."
Too weak to rise, he was not too weak to pray. Clasping his handstogether, and gazing up into the clear blue sky, from whence all cloudswere now dispersing, he poured out his overflowing heart inthanksgiving.
He spoke with God. The tremulous voice gained strength, the power offaith and hope grew intensified, and he prayed with that love andfervour which the grateful child of a heavenly Parent can only feel.
Mrs. Weston and Mr. Brunton were paralyzed with astonishment;instinctively they shrank from disturbing that solemn time by comingforward to speak with George and letting him recognise them; but with aunited impulse, both quietly and solemnly knelt down and joined in thesong of thanksgiving.
Theirs was joy unspeakable; tears poured down both faces, and hushedsobs of rejoicing burst from their hearts. All their prayers and earnestlongings had been answered; all their sorrow was turned into joy; andthat Friend of friends, whose delights are with the children of men, hadordered, according to the tender mercy of His loving heart, all the evilinto overwhelming good.
Presently the voice ceased; and, exhausted with the effort, George laydown in calm and blissful tranquillity to sleep.
As Mrs. Weston rose from her knees, her dress touched a book on thetable, which fell to the ground. George was roused by the sound, and,trying to draw aside the curtain, said,--
"Is that you, Mrs. Murdoch?"
Mrs. Weston, although dreading the consequences of excitement, couldrestrain no longer the yearning of her motherly heart to embrace herson.
"No, George, my dearest boy, it is your mother."
"Mother! mother!" cried George, with the old former-day voice of loveand joy, passionately kissing the face of beaming happiness bent overhim, "Thank God you are here!"
From that day George began rapidly to improve. The excitement producedby the discovery that he had been sought and found, instead of doin
g himinjury, relieved his already-oppressed mind from a weight of care. Everyday brought fresh strength, and as he sat up in bed, carefully proppedup by pillows, with his uncle on one hand and his mother on the other,he told them all the sorrowful and joyful details of his strangeexperiences until the eventful morning when his strength gave way.
"This is beginning life afresh, in every sense," he said; "here am I, apoor mortal, almost helpless, just strong enough to know how weak I am;and before me--if my life is spared--lies an untrodden path. But I beginmy restored life, through God's infinite mercy, with a new inner life;and He who has given me that, will, I know, freely give me all thingsthat shall be for my good."
Mrs. Weston never knew the fulness of joy before those days. Her onlyson, in whom all her brightest earthly hopes were centred, had ever beena source of deep anxiety to her. Her never-ceasing prayer had been thathe might be what he now was--a child of her Father; and in therealization of her heart's desire she found such joy unspeakable, thatall the cares and troubles of long, weary years seemed as though theyhad not been.
George was soon sufficiently restored to be able to leave his bed andsit up for a few hours on the sofa. The day for this trial of strengthhaving been definitely fixed by the doctor, Mrs. Weston wrote at once toHardy, inviting him, if he could manage to get away, to come down andcelebrate the event.
The meeting between the two friends was as joyful as their parting hadbeen sorrowful.
"George, my dear old boy," said Hardy, as he shook him by the hand, "itdoes my eyesight good to see you again."
"And it does my heart good to see you, old fellow," replied George, ashe returned the pressure. "You don't know how I have longed for yourcoming, that I might tell you how deeply grateful I am to you for allyour brotherly love--"
"Good-bye, George," said Hardy, taking up his hat and buttoning hiscoat; "I won't stay another minute unless you give over talking suchstuff What I've done! Why, if my pup, Gip, were to run away, I should dofor him what I have done for you--no more, no less. So let us drop thesubject, that's a good fellow, and then I'll sit down and chat withyou."
Never was there a pleasanter chat by any little party than by that whichassembled in Mrs. Murdoch's best parlour that evening. All hearts werefull of thankfulness, and though there were some painful subjectsdiscussed, yet the joyful ones far more than counterbalanced them.
Mr. Brunton found out, in the course of the evening, that he hadsomething very important to do, and probably Mrs. Weston discovered herassistance was needed as well, for the friends found themselves, after awhile, alone, which was what they both wanted.
"You have heard, Hardy, of all the strange things that have happened tome?" George began, hesitatingly. "I should like to be able to tell youall about them; but, somehow, I don't know how to put such matters intowords."
"You mean, George, that one great, solemn, joyful event which has madeyour life now something worth living for," said Hardy, relieving him ofa difficulty. "I cannot tell you how glad I am to know it. The past twoyears have been funny ones to both of us. Religion has been ground onwhich we have not been able to tread together, as you know: but, thankgoodness, that has all gone by. Now, I must tell you my mind, George,"he continued, in that frank, manly way which was so natural to him; "Inever gave you credit for sincerity when you took up with those strangenotions which were so dangerous to you. I believed then that they wereconvenient principles, which might be stretched and made to agree withthe dictates of your inclination. I do not say you did not believe whatyou professed, but I always thought that you forced yourself into thatbelief by self-deception. Now, wait, don't interrupt me. I know what youare going to say; but whatever harm you did to others--God only knowsthat--I do not think your change in sentiment did any harm to me! Forthis reason--I saw you were not straightforward with your own heart, andI felt sure you slighted that pure and holy religion in which we hadbeen instructed from childhood, not because in your heart of hearts youdisbelieved it, but because it condemned that course of conduct whichyou were pursuing. Now, was it not so?"
"Yes, Hardy, you are right. I can trace out now the processes of thoughtthrough which I passed, to lead me to think and act as I did; and Inever knew before what a wretchedly poor thing a morally endowed,intelligent human being is in his own strength. I did not know how weakI was. I did feel sometimes oppressed with the idea that I was willinglyblindfolding myself--but, somehow, an argument was always at hand toweigh down this feeling. But tell me why you think my endeavours to makeyou believe as I did never did you injury? God grant they may not toothers."
"Why, when I observed you, as I tell you I did, it was impossible for menot to be on my guard. Nay, more, this question tormented me daily, 'Youbelieve George disregards religion, because it condemns him; if youregard that religion, but do not practise it, does it not condemn you?'Now this was a home-thrust, George, which I could not parry off. I triedto determine not to be such a cowardly, mean-spirited creature as to tryand cheat God by pretending to believe Him, and yet fight under falsecolours against Him; and so I gave up many of my old habits, and triedto start afresh. And now, George, you don't know how thankful I am thatyou are different to what you were. We have studied many thingstogether, joined in many plans and purposes; and now I hope we shall beable to study the highest and best thing in earth or heaven--what God'swill is, and how to do it."
* * * * *
That desire became the watchword of their lives.
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