Chapter XX: Sickness Unto Death

"More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of."

* * * * * * *

"What are men better than sheep or goats,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer,
Both for themselves and those who call them friends?"
TENNYSON.

JOSEPH'S holiday sped rapidly on towards its termination.

It had been prolonged beyond what had been anticipated; for the bone, being badly broken, was somewhat slow in healing, and a considerable time elapsed before the parish doctor, who had the case in hand, would hear of the splints being removed. At length, however, the arm was pronounced to be fully mended, and Dr. Abel gave his patient permission to resume work the following week; and he had only five days more to call his own.

Meanwhile, Mr. Glover had been as good as his word, every Saturday sending him a remittance to the full amount of his week's wages. And it was not until long afterwards that Joseph learned how the good old gentleman, with the true instinct of benevolence, had at the same time been in communication with Dr. Abel, in order that he might be certain the lad did not fall into the snare of abusing his kindness by making the most of the accident.

These last five days were precious, for although Joseph, anxious to be at work once more, was chafing at his forced idleness, he had so grown to his home again that to tear himself away seemed like making the start anew. Whilst on the other hand, his mother and Ruth could not bear the thought of missing the manly support to which they had thus become so accustomed.

Ruth had wonderfully improved during his absence, and his brotherly pride in her was very pretty to behold.

"Only thirteen, mother, and quite a little woman," he would say, as he watched her going about her work, whilst Mrs. Adams sat busy with her needle. "She will be worth two of Mina, with all her boarding-school airs."

And he would take his hat and walk down to school with her every morning, carrying her books as if she were the daintiest lady in the land; for Joseph's chivalry was of that perfect kind which extends its acts of courtesy to a sister, as well as to her young lady friends.

One morning—the Wednesday of his last week—he returned with a very serious face. Mrs. Adams was busy washing out some little things which were wanted ready for his departure, and not finding her at her sewing-machine, he went out to the wash-house and stood near her, looking on in silence.

Presently he spoke.

"I have just seen old Atherby, mother," he said, "who used to work for Uncle Benjamin along with father; and he tells me very bad news of Neville."

His mother glanced up from her suds.

"Of Neville!" she exclaimed. "Why, we thought him in a fair way to recovery. Ruth saw him out walking, the day after you met him driving near the Warren."

"Yes; but they didn't know how his constitution was undermined; and he has taken fresh cold. One lung is completely gone, and the other—he is dying!" he burst out suddenly, unable to control his feelings. "They say he cannot last many days." And Joseph walked away, vainly trying to compose his face.

There had not been much love lost between the cousins in former days; but the fault had been on Neville's side, and there was a painful mixture of thoughts in the mind of the young Christian.

"Without God and without hope," he had added, to himself, as he told his mother the sad intelligence.

Presently, he came back.

"I must see him before—before I go away, mother," he said. "Do you think—"

Mrs. Adams shook her head, finishing the question for him.

"I cannot say," she answered. "Trouble sometimes softens the heart; but—"

"They could not refuse me, mother. We used to play together. What does it matter to Neville if I wear shabby clothes, when he has only days to live? I cannot let him die without a word. How can he face death? I must see him."

His mother was silent, seeing how deeply he was moved.

"You can but make the attempt," she said.

"I will," he rejoined; "this very afternoon. I care not how they treat me, so that they let me see him." And he remained lost in thought.

Ruth came into dinner bright as usual, and wondered to find her brother so abstracted. But her face rapidly changed in sympathy when she heard the news.

"Poor Mina!" she exclaimed, at once putting herself in the position of the heart-broken sister. "How I wish she would let me comfort her; and I said once that I hated her."

About the middle of the afternoon, Joseph went out, directing his steps towards Aylesdere.

It was a sunny day, warm and genial, and as the streets were left behind for the more open roads, the twitter of song-birds and the rustle of budding trees filled the air with sounds of life; but Joseph did not heed. His thoughts were full of his cousin.

Arrived at the door, he knocked lightly and waited in painful uncertainty.

In a minute or so, a servant-maid appeared. She hesitated, upon learning his errand, but said she would go and see, and Joseph was left standing in the hall. The girl knew him very well, and was not sure how his visit would be received. After some time, however, she returned, and requesting him to follow her, led the way upstairs.

Mina was on the landing. She advanced in a hurried manner, and put out her hand in silence.

"It is kind of you to think of coming," she said, in a constrained voice. "Neville wishes to see you; but you must be very quiet. He cannot bear much."

Joseph noticed a great change in her appearance since the last time he had seen her out driving with her brother. All her colour was gone, and her eyes, swollen and heavy with anxiety and watching, seemed unable to meet his. The expression of her face was one of hopeless sadness. She at once conducted him to the sick-room.

Neville was lying raised on his pillows, his arms thrown languidly on the coverlet, and the room was faint with the eau de Cologne with which Mina had been bathing his temples.

Joseph saw him at once from the doorway, and knew that there was no hope. His eyes were fixed eagerly upon it and his fingers moved restlessly as Joseph entered, as if anxious to meet his. Neither spoke; but there was no need of words, for Neville knew he had been unworthy, and Joseph held the poor, wasted hand with a tender pressure which seemed to speak forgiveness of all past wrongs. In a moment, they understood each other.

Mina had followed Joseph to the bedside and placed a chair for him. She now retreated to the window and took up a book, feigning to read, and there was a long pause, during which Joseph sat gazing pitifully at the emaciated form before him.

"Do you suffer much?" he asked at length.

Neville shook his head. "Only weakness," he replied faintly. "My strength is less every hour, I can feel it going. It is hard," he added, "hard."

"It is only going home," Joseph said gently.

"It is dying," the young man answered, with a shudder. "But I have no right to complain, I have lived for pleasure, and I must die without hope!" And he turned his face away, as if unable to endure the daylight.

Joseph heard a stifled sob. Mina was crying bitterly with her face buried in her hands.

"I cannot die; I dare not die!" Neville groaned.

"Have you no faith in God?" Joseph asked earnestly. "'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for "Thou art with me."'"

"Not with 'me,'" he interrupted. "I have lived without God, and I must meet it alone—with all my sins."

"'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool,'" Joseph quoted.

But Neville shook his head.

"'As the tree falls, so it must lie,'" he said, hopelessly. "I must reap my own harvest."

"But Jesus died that all might be forgiven," Joseph pleaded. "No matter what your sins are, if only you repent, and truly turn to Him, all will be well."

"Too late, too late!" he moaned.

"Not while you have breath to cry to Him for pardon."

"I dare not."

"'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.' Believe His word, Neville."

"Oh! If only I had come sooner!" And the wretched young man groaned in spirit.

"It is never too late," Joseph still urged. "Neville, have faith in God's Word. Think of the dying thief: 'Lord, remember me,' and Christ's answer: 'This day shalt thou be with Me in paradise.' Cry to Him for pardon, He never turns away from prayer."

"I cannot pray."

"It is only asking for what you need—as you would ask your earthly father."

"Pray for me."

Without a moment's hesitation, Joseph knelt by the bedside, and with his hands clasped upon the coverlet poured out his heart in earnest pleading that the peace of God in Christ might come to his cousin's troubled conscience.

He had never prayed aloud before, and emotion seemed at first almost to choke utterance. But everything was forgotten in his intense fervour save his dying cousin's need, and his own power to prevail. When he ceased, Neville was lying with his eyes closed, and a peaceful look over his features. These strong words of faith and confidence had seemed to bring God nearer; and for the moment he was at rest. But he was exhausted with the excitement of talking, and remained perfectly still. In a few minutes, he opened his eyes.

"Thank you," he murmured, "thank you. Come again."

Joseph promised, and gently pressing his hand turned to go.

Mina was standing near. She gave him her hand with an averted face. "You are better than we deserve," she said, in a broken voice.

Joseph's eyes filled with tears. "I wish I could help you," he said.

"You can," Mina cried; "for you can pray; and there is no other help. Come again;—if you can forgive us."

"When may I come?"

"When you please. To-night, if you will."

Again Joseph promised. And with a full heart, he left the house.