Chapter XXI: The Shining of the River

"The Christian is God Almighty's gentleman."
HARE.

AFTER tea, Joseph returned to the house of death.

A veil of cloud had dimmed the sky, and the twilight was creeping slowly on, as one by one the busy sounds of day hushed into silence; but where the sun had sunk, there lay a belt of living radiance,—sure prophecy of the rising of another dawn, and symbol of those words of hope: "At evening time it shall be light."

Mina met Joseph in the hall, and asked him to go up at once, as she was giving her papa his tea.

In the sick-room, he found his aunt, who, though outwardly civil to him for the sake of humouring her boy's whim, seemed constrained and cold in her manner. She remained in the room the whole of the evening. And as Joseph, anxious not to intrude, kept in the background, there was no opportunity for further conversation with his cousin. But Neville appeared comforted by his presence, and thanked him for coming, with a very speaking smile.

Mina was in and out a good deal; but she, too, seemed shy and uneasy, and scarcely spoke to him.

As soon as Mr. Adams came up, he took leave.

Mina was waiting at the foot of the staircase. "Come to-morrow," she said. "Do not mind mamma. She hardly knows what she is doing; but she is glad to have you here if it comforts Neville."

Joseph asked if he might come in the morning; but Mina shook her head.

"The doctor will be here," she said, "and Neville will be too much exhausted to see you. If there should be any change, I would send for you," she added, with tearful eyes. "You would come at any time, if Neville wanted you?"

The next afternoon and evening were spent there. But even in that short space, a great change was perceptible in the dying young man. His breath came in quicker gasps, and his face was more sunken and transparent. He had scarcely spoken during the morning, except to inquire if there had been any news from Horace Grandpont yet.

Upon learning that nothing had been heard since a letter which had arrived some days before by a homeward-bound vessel, he said, "I should have liked to know of his safe arrival; but that cannot be. It will be a sad warning to him when he hears."

He asked, too, if any of his old chums had been to inquire after him, and on being told that Tom Rawlinson and another had called that very morning, he seemed grieved that they had not been brought upstairs.

"I should have liked to speak to them again," he said. And a little later, "Poor, merry old Tom! It would have been well for him to see me. He doesn't know what death is."

But he looked up with a smile of contentment as Joseph stood once more by his bedside.

"You are so 'strong,'" he said, as the robust young carpenter bent over him.

"I wish I could give you some of my strength," the latter returned, thinking Neville referred to physical power.

But Neville shook his head.

"That cannot be," he said; "and I must go 'alone.'"

That thought "alone" seemed his one terror. In his life of gaiety and carelessness, he had never been accustomed to commune with his own heart, and now that he was called upon to tread that path where neither friends nor pleasures can follow, the awful silence of its solitude appalled him. For the Comforter was not with him.

A Bible, from which Mina had been reading, was lying on the bed. Joseph took it in his hand and commenced turning over the pages, reading here and there of how the Son of God came to die for sinful men and bid them come to Him.

But Neville pointed to a leaf turned down. It was at the account of the young man who had gone away sorrowful because of his "great possessions."

"He went to Christ in vain," he said. "'It is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.' I have enjoyed my good things, and I have nothing left."

In vain, Joseph spoke of the Saviour who came to seek and to save those who were lost; in vain, he prayed with him. That one feeling was uppermost—that he could not dare thus at the twelfth hour to offer his wasted life to the God whom he had neglected. But still he begged Joseph to stay with him; and the latter, full of yearning and pity, needed no urging, and scarcely left his bedside.

At length, Sunday arrived. Joseph had been with his cousin all the morning, for Mina—feeling that the end was very near—had sent for him, and begged him to stay all day. And Joseph, distressed beyond measure at the thought of having to desert him on the morrow, had been talking very earnestly as he watched his life rapidly ebbing away.

Neville had been lying for some time with his eyes closed. Presently, he opened them. The others were at dinner, and the two cousins were alone together.

"You will be at work to-morrow," he said faintly.

Joseph replied affectionately that he would give anything to be able to stay.

"I shall need no one long," Neville replied; "and the world cannot stop for me. I would give worlds to change places with you."

By and by he spoke again. "You forgive me for having despised you?" he said.

"Fully and freely," Joseph hastened to answer. "You do not doubt that."

"I know it," he said with emotion, extending his hand.

Joseph took it very tenderly. "Why cannot you believe in Christ's forgiveness?" he asked earnestly. "I have done so little to show mine; but He died on the cross out of His great love to men."

"If only I could see Him and hear Him, as I hear you!"

"You can see Him, if you will but believe. Listen:

"'At even, when the sun did set, they brought unto Him all that were diseased, and them that were possessed with devils . . . and He healed them.'

"And He 'went about all Galilee . . . preaching the Gospel of the
kingdom, and healing all manner of sickness . . . among the people.'

"Think of Him going about weary and footsore, laying His hands on the sick, taking little children in His arms; reviled, but never reviling; mocked and scourged and spat upon, but bearing all for your sake. Cannot you see Him, Neville? No king riding to victory in pomp and splendour, but the lowly carpenter of Nazareth, who had made acquaintance with want and toil, and was 'tempted like as we are.'"

"'Yet without sin'—'without sin'—"

"'The Friend of sinners'—the Son of God, who 'though He was rich, for our sakes became poor, that we through His poverty might be made rich.' Can you doubt that He loved you?"

Neville's eyes were fixed intently on Joseph's face, as if to read his inmost heart.

"Could you talk so, with death before you, and a wasted life behind?" he asked. "'Oh! It is awful to face death!'"

Joseph's eyes filled with tears. "Oh! If only I could change places with you!" he cried. "Neville, I am not afraid. Do believe it—I am not afraid to die—for I know that my Redeemer liveth. And He has said,—

"'Because I live, ye shall live also.'

"Trust Him as you are, with all your past life,—sins, follies, carelessness—no matter what—known only to yourself and to Him,—and cry,—

"'Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief!'"

"'Help Thou mine unbelief!'"

It was the first prayer he had uttered, and it seemed to bring peace to his soul,—like the peace that comes to an erring child when its stubborn will is conquered, and its weary head at length rests upon the bosom that knows its penitence, and pities and forgives.

"'Help Thou mine unbelief!'" he repeated again and again.

He spoke very little more, and Joseph scarcely left the room, except to snatch a morsel of refreshment. The minutes sped on. The brightness of the afternoon declined with the westering sun; the last horizontal rays spent their golden light, and as the shadows of the twilight crept on, they gathered around the death-bed.

Joseph would have stood aside, feeling that there were other, nearer claims than his. But his dying cousin clung to his hand, as though he gained courage from its strong grasp, and his lips moved from time to time to form the words which Joseph repeated for him:

"'Help Thou mine unbelief,—'"

the only anchor of his soul, as the billows closed over it.

Little by little, the breath came fainter and more faintly from his unclosed lips, and the helpless lids closed, then a happy smile and one deep-drawn sigh, and all was over.

The father stood with dry eyes and icy heart, and the mother's anguish burst forth in a low wail. But Joseph's voice rose clear and calm, as he knelt with the lifeless hand still clasped in his, in thanksgiving that the struggle was at an end—the darkness of death exchanged for the brightness of eternal day.

Then gently unclasping the hand, and rising from his knees, he pressed one last kiss upon the peaceful brow, and putting his arm around his cousin, led her gently from the room.

* * * * *

It was dark when Joseph left Mina. The stars were shining coldly overhead, and the night air blew keen and chilly. It was strange to walk home, and know that the heart which had but just learned to love Him was for ever stilled in death;—that though the morrow would find him toiling once more at his humble avocation, the hopes and ambitions of that life, whose prospects had been so bright, were for ever at an end. But amid the sorrow and regret was one feeling stronger than aught else, a feeling of deep thankfulness that through the "accident," which had come so near costing him his life, he had been enabled to brighten with the hope of immortality his cousin's last hours.

The people were coming out of the different places of worship as he passed through the town, and here and there friends in twos and threes were bidding each other good-bye as they took their several ways home—among them a young man and a girl, who shook hands and separated as Joseph approached, the former hurrying off in the opposite direction, the latter coming on towards him.

A moment later, he was face to face with Cicely Anderson whom, by a singular chance, he had not seen once during the whole of his six weeks' holiday. They recognised each other, and stopped as if by mutual consent.

"Have you seen your cousin?" Cicely asked, after the first greeting. "Tom Rawlinson has been telling me he cannot live through the night, and that you have been with him."

"I have just come away. It is all over."

The news was sudden, and Cicely was very much shocked. For some minutes, neither spoke.

Then Joseph turned to walk a little way back with her, and tell her about the last few days.

He found her, too, changed since last they met—taught in the school of adversity to look beneath the surface for true happiness.

But Cicely had long had something on her mind.

"Joseph," she said frankly, as he was about to wish her good-night, "we are old schoolfellows, and ought to be friends. Has it ever hurt you that I neglected you for those who were grander and richer? Can you forgive and forget?"

"Everything," was Joseph's cordial answer.

"I have been humbled, too," Cicely continued; "and in striving to do my lowliest duties faithfully, I have found out how to be really happy. And I have learnt to estimate character at its true worth. Will you forgive me, and like me again as you used to do?"

"In the old school days, when I was your hero?—Days that can never return," he added sadly. "Yes. But tell me one thing before I say good-bye. You like me better than Tom Rawlinson?"

"Poor Tom! Oh! Yes. But he is trying to be better; and we must do our best to help him on."

* * * * *

Daddy was already in the market-place when Joseph crossed it on his way to the station next morning, scraping busily with his stick for his odds and ends of treasure, and stopping now and again to chafe one hand against his jacket, as the keen morning air chilled and numbed it.

But suddenly, he paused and looked upward, then faced about and seemed to listen. Then perceiving Joseph, made a few steps towards him.

"Could ye tell me, is this Sunday?" he asked. "It seems like yesterday I was in the church; but I tho'ght I heard a sound of bells, and my poor old head is so stupid now."

It was the passing-bell tolling for Neville's death; the last sound that Joseph heard as the station was left behind.

Several years have elapsed since then, and that same bell has counted out the venerable age of poor old Daddy David.

Meanwhile, the carpenter's son, no longer despised for his calling, has returned to his native place. His mother and Ruth no longer live in the little house where the latter was born, for Joseph is in partnership with his uncle, and has built himself a pleasant little villa near Aylesdere, where Cicely is now once more a constant visitor. For, although her father's affairs have never recovered from the heavy losses he sustained, and she still has to brave the contempt of those who look down upon economy and thrift, Joseph has not despised her for her low estate, and she is one day to call Mina "cousin."

With this love in his heart, and the hopes of owning—at some not far distant date—a happy home of his own, Joseph is working steadily on, a good master because in time past he learnt to fill a workman's place, and, above all, because he early chose as the pattern of his life the great Exemplar—the God-man;—of whom it was said by those who marvelled at His wisdom and His words,—

"Is not this the carpenter's Son?"

THE END.