CHAPTER XX.
“You came from Violet’s room just now?” the captain said enquiringly to the doctor.
“Yes. She was sleeping and had been for some hours; knew nothing yet of your accident.”
“That is well; don’t let her be uneasy about me.”
“Not if I can help it,” returned Arthur with a slight smile; “but she will of course miss you soon, and demand a reason for your desertion of her; then what can be done better than to own the truth?”
“Nothing, certainly; but make your report of my condition as favorable as you can.”
“I will do that, and I can say truly that there is no reason to apprehend any thing worse for either of you than an enforced separation for a few weeks; and that while in the same house and almost near enough to carry on a conversation; you can exchange messages every hour in the day if you deem it desirable.”
“And I can carry them for you, papa,” said Lulu, returning with the ice-water and fan.
“So you shall, daughter,” he said, taking theglass from her hand; and then as he returned it, “bring me a writing desk, paper and pencil, and I’ll prepare one for you to take.”
“And I may sit and fan you while you write it, mayn’t I?”
“Yes; I shall be glad to have you do so.”
Grandma Elsie was watching over her daughter’s slumbers, carefully guarding her from disturbance, and especially from any intruder who would bring the evil tidings of her husband’s injury.
At length Violet woke and looked up into her mother’s face with a bright, sweet smile. “I feel very comfortable,” she said. “I must have slept a good while, have I not? and how kind in you, dearest mamma, to watch over me so tenderly. I fear you must be fatigued; and it strikes me you look a trifle weary and troubled. Is any thing wrong?” Then with a quick glance round the room, “Where is my husband?”
“Down stairs.”
“I wish he would come up; please send him word that I am awake and want to see him. He will come up at once, I know.”
Elsie bent down and kissed the pale cheek before she answered.
“If you can spare me for a few minutes, I’ll go and tell him myself,” she said, with playful look and smile.
“But why not send a servant, mamma dear? I don’t want you tiring yourself going up and down on my errands.”
“But I have a fancy for doing it this once; I’ve been sitting still a long while, and a little exercise will be good for me.”
With that she left the room.
She found the captain writing his note, the doctor still with him.
“Vi is awake and asking for her husband,” she said. “Arthur, will you come up and give her as good a report as you can with truth?”
“Certainly, my dear cousin; and it need not be so bad a one as to cause her any special uneasiness.”
“And here is a report from the patient himself,” remarked the captain, smilingly handing a slip of paper to his mother-in-law. “Don’t let her be despondent over the enforced separation, mother, remind her that it is at least a little better than if I were on a voyage that would keep us apart for six months or a year.”
“That should be a comforting reflection,” Elsie said. “But you are suffering, captain!” as a sudden spasm of pain caused an involuntary contraction of his brow.
“Well, yes,” he replied, “but not more than can be easily endured. Make as light of it as you can to my dear wife.”
They broke the news to Violet as gently aspossible, treating the matter as of as little consequence as they conscientiously could, then gave her the captain’s note.
It was written in a cheerful, even gay strain, that did much to remove her apprehensions. He spoke of the morning’s accident as something in the nature of a repetition of the mishap that had been the means of bringing them into intimate association for weeks, till they had learned to know and love each other; a consummation for which he at least, would have cause to be grateful all his days.
“So there was a blessing in that love,” he concluded, “and let us hope there will be in this also.”
Violet could not of course fail to be distressed on her husband’s account because of the pain and weariness he must inevitably suffer, and for herself that she must be so long deprived of his dear companionship, but she would not allow herself to fret; no murmur or complaint escaped her lips, and she vied with him in the cheerfulness and gayety of her messages and notes, when she was well enough to obtain permission to write them.
As to the captain, while thus deprived of the society of his wife and tied down to a couch of pain, he found the greatest solace in the companionship, devoted affection and endearments of his children.
Max came and went, doing his errands, conveying his orders to workmen and servants, and writing letters at his dictation. Grace hung about him with her pretty, loving embraces, and was always glad to do any little service in her power; little Elsie was brought to him for a short daily visit; but Lulu was his devoted nurse, seldom absent from his side during the day, except to take her meals and the daily exercise in the open air that he would not allow her to omit.
It was a dear delight to her to wait upon him, and to feel that she was necessary to his comfort.
When the worst was over and he was comparatively free from pain, he had the children resume their studies, and heard their recitations as he lay on his couch. Useful occupation seemed to him the best panacea for pain and the tedium of long confinement to the house; having his couch wheeled out to the shady veranda being for weeks the only practicable change.
His wife’s relatives were kind and attentive to both her and him, making frequent friendly calls and offers of service, but his chief dependence for entertainment and constant, loving attention, was upon his children.
He loved to have them gather about him at all times, but especially in the evenings when the day’s duties and pleasures were over, andtell him what they had seen in their walks and drives; thus teaching them to observe and describe; also he encouraged them to talk freely of their thoughts and feelings; so winning their confidence, correcting their mistakes, and giving instruction in a way that was pleasant to both teacher and taught.
He thought much of their future in both this world and the next, and how best he could prepare them to meet successfully life’s trials, toils and struggles, how to find and to do the work intended for them, and often and often his heart went up in prayer to God for grace and wisdom to guide them aright.
Remembering the inspired declaration that “we must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God,” he did not ask for them exemption from trials and troubles, though his heart yearned over them at the thought of what they might be called to endure; but his request for them was that when called to pass through deep waters or fiery trials, they might ever find the eternal God their refuge and underneath the Everlasting Arms; that through all their lives they might prove good soldiers of Jesus Christ, able and ready to endure hardness for him; and that they might be kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation.
“My darlings,” he would sometimes say, “I would not have you of the number of those whoseek first their own ease and gratification; ‘man’s chief end is to glorify God and enjoy him forever’; make it the aim of your lives to know, love and serve him; to do his work and his will; to do all in your power to bring others to him; and he will take care of the rest.”
“Papa, you love us very much; don’t you want us to have easy, pleasant times?” Grace asked on one of these occasions.
“I do love you all very dearly, and I am afraid that would be what I should choose for you if the choice were left to me,” he answered; “but it is not mine, and I rejoice that it is not; for God, our Heavenly Father, in whose hand are all these things, loves you far better than I do, and is infinite in wisdom; he will choose for you and never make a mistake.”
“It makes me glad to think of that, papa,” she sighed, creeping closer into his embrace, for she was leaning against his couch, with his arm round her; “for I am not very strong, you know, and when I hear about having to run a race and fight a battle, it seems as if I could never do it; but Jesus will help me to do both, won’t he, papa?”
“He will, dear child. He says: ‘In me is thine help.’ ‘Happy art thou, oh, Israel: who is like unto thee, oh, people saved by the Lord, the shield of thy help, and who is the sword of thy excellency?’
“‘Our soul waiteth for the Lord: he is our help and our shield.’”
“Does every body have to run a race and fight a battle to get to heaven, papa?” queried Lulu.
“Yes, my child; there is no escaping it: we belong to a fallen race, and are all born into the world with a sinful nature that must be got rid of before we can enter heaven. We would not be happy in that holy place with that evil nature, even could we gain admittance there uncleansed from it. We have that to struggle against, and put away, with the help of God, and by the application of the blood of Christ, which cleanseth from all sin. And we have the snares of the world to avoid, and a warfare to wage with many spiritual foes, malignantly intent upon our ruin.”
“It’s just dreadful, papa!” said Lulu. “I don’t see how any body ever gets saved.”
“By trusting in the Lord Jesus Christ, who is mightier than all our foes, able to save to the uttermost, and who died to redeem us.”
“What does that word redeem mean, papa?”
“To buy back; to deliver from bondage, or out of the hands of justice. In our case it is bondage to sin and Satan, it is God’s justice, which demands the death eternal of every sinner who is not ransomed by the blood of Christ.”
“Are all the people who don’t love and serve God, servants to sin and Satan, papa?”
“Yes: ‘Know ye not, that to whom ye yield yourselves servants to obey, his servants ye are to whom ye obey: whether of sin unto death, or of obedience unto righteousness?’
“Oh, my dear children, I can not bear to think of any one of you being a servant of sin and Satan, instead of a servant of God and Christ!”
A few moments of solemn stillness succeeded the last words; then the captain said:
“It is time for evening worship; call in the servants, Max.”
He had not once omitted the morning or evening sacrifice of prayer and praise, for though unable to kneel, he could read the Word and pray from his couch.
Firmly he had resolved, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
He had for some time seen reason to hope that Max and Grace, young though they were, had entered that service, but not so with Lulu: though truthful, conscientious, affectionate, and usually obedient to him, and really striving to overcome her easily-besetting sin, and rule her own spirit, she showed no love to Christ and professed none.
He was anxious about her, and often lifted up his heart on her behalf, for he knew that, being old enough to fully comprehend the plan of salvation, she was not safe while neglecting or refusing to come to Christ.
He noticed that she was unusually thoughtful and attentive during the short service this evening, and as she lingered a little behind the others, as was her wont, he drew her to him and holding her in a close, loving embrace, asked tenderly:
“My darling, when are you going to leave the service of sin and Satan for that of the dear Saviour?”
“Papa,” she said, hiding her face on his shoulder, “I—I can’t bear to think of being Satan’s servant, and—and I do mean to be a Christian some time. I—I’m not good enough yet; I’ve got such a bad temper, you know; and I like my own way so well that—that it does seem as if I can’t keep from disobeying you once in a while.
“So I couldn’t be a good kind of a Christian, and—and that’s the only kind I’d want to be.”
He sighed deeply. “My child,” he said, “what is all that you have been saying, but an acknowledgment that you still love and choose the service of sin?”
“I was just telling you the truth about how I feel, papa, and how can I help it, if I’m made so?”
“By coming to Jesus, who saves his people from their sins. He is able to save to the uttermost; to save all from sin who will come to him; he never saves anyintheir sins; and heis the only Saviour; the only one who can deliver you from bondage to sin and Satan; can take away the evil of your nature and implant the love of holiness.
“You can never conquer your love of sin without his help; you will never grow really better while you stay away from him.”
“But I’m only a little girl, papa; I think I could do it better when I’m older.”
“No, it is Satan tells you that; he knows that the longer you delay, the harder your heart will grow, and the more difficult it will be to bring it to Jesus.
“Many and many a soul has been lost by listening to Satan telling it to wait for a more convenient season, and so putting off repentance till it was forever too late.
“But God’s time is always now; ‘Behold now is the accepted time; behold now is the day of salvation!’ Come now—this hour, this moment—my dear child, and he will fulfill to you his gracious promise, ‘Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.’”
“Papa, are you ordering me?”
“No, my child, I am entreating you. Jesus entreats you; ‘Son, daughter, give me thine heart.’ He says, ‘Behold I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him and he with me.’
“Open the door of your heart to him now, my child, lest he should turn away and never knock there again.”
“Does he ever do that, papa, before people die?” she asked in an awed tone.
“Yes, he says, ‘My Spirit shall not always strive.’ Of some he says, ‘Ephraim is joined to his idols; let him alone,’ and that sentence may go forth years before death comes. Of Esau it is said, ‘He found no place of repentance, though he sought it with tears.’
“‘There is a time, we know not when,A point we know not where,That marks the destiny of men,To glory or despair.There is a line, by us unseen,That crosses every path,The hidden boundary betweenGod’s mercy and his wrath.’”
“‘There is a time, we know not when,A point we know not where,That marks the destiny of men,To glory or despair.There is a line, by us unseen,That crosses every path,The hidden boundary betweenGod’s mercy and his wrath.’”
“‘There is a time, we know not when,A point we know not where,That marks the destiny of men,To glory or despair.
“‘There is a time, we know not when,
A point we know not where,
That marks the destiny of men,
To glory or despair.
There is a line, by us unseen,That crosses every path,The hidden boundary betweenGod’s mercy and his wrath.’”
There is a line, by us unseen,
That crosses every path,
The hidden boundary between
God’s mercy and his wrath.’”
He paused, and shuddering and hiding her face, “Papa,” she murmured, “I do intend to try before very long, when I’m just a little older.”
“But you may not live to be any older; who can say that you will live to see the light of another morning? Or that the invitation may not be withdrawn? My child, the only time you are sure of is now; just now; comenow, at once.”
“But how, papa?” she asked, as again he paused.
“Just as you would if you could see the Lord Jesus here in this room. It would not be difficult for you to go and kneel at his feet and ask him to take you for his own, to wash away all your sins, and teach you to love and serve him.”
“No, papa, but—I’m afraid I—I don’t want to.”
“Oh,” he exclaimed, “how can you help loving One who is so lovely in character? So kind, so good, so loving, so unselfish that he died the cruel death of the cross that we might be saved?
“One who has been so patient and forbearing with you all these years that you have lived in rebellion against him, and is still entreating you to come to him and be saved!”
He paused for a reply, but none came.
“You like to think that you belong to me? Are my very own?” he said, enquiringly.
“Oh, yes, papa! indeed I do!”
“You love me very much?”
“Indeed,indeedI do!”
“And you value my love?”
“O papa, I don’t know how I could live without it,” she cried, nestling closer to him, and kissing him with ardent affection.
“You look to me for protecting care? You feel safe in my arms?”
“Oh, yes, papa! You would never let me be harmed.”
“Not if I could help it, dear child, I would protect you with my life. But I can not always do so; some day, daughter, your father will have to die and leave you.”
“Oh, don’t, papa, don’t talk of that!” she exclaimed, catching her breath with a half sob.
“I don’t speak of it to distress you, my darling,” he said, softly smoothing her hair, “but I want you to reflect how desirable, how necessary it is for you to secure a nearer, dearer, more powerful Friend. One who sticketh closer than a brother, whose love is deeper and stronger than a mother’s, and who will never leave nor forsake you, never die. The Lord Jesus, who is all these and more, now offers you his friendship and his love; but how long he will continue the offer, none can tell. Will you not come to him now, this moment?”
“Papa, I can’t. I can’t make my heart want to do it,” she said despairingly.
“Make the effort and he will help you, as he did the man with the withered hand. He might have said: ‘I can not stretch it forth, I have not been able to move it for years;’ but instead, he tried to obey, and Jesus gave him strength,and so will he help you to obey his call. ‘Come unto me,’ if you will but try to do so.”
“But perhaps he doesn’t mean for me to try just now, papa,” she said struggling with herself.
“No; that can not be so. His time is always now, to-day; never to-morrow, or next week or next year.
“‘To-day, if ye will hear his voice, harden not your heart as in the day of provocation.
“‘Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.’
“And you will be but giving him of his own; you are his because he made you, his, because He has kept you alive all these years, His, because he has bought you with his own precious blood. He has lent you to me for a time, but you belong to him. Do not refuse him his own, my child.
“I hope and believe that all the rest of us are walking in the straight and narrow way, will you not come with us? Oh, how can I bear to see my dear daughter travelling the broad road that leads to eternal death!”
“Papa, pray for me, ask Jesus to help me to do it just now,” she sobbed, sinking to her knees beside his couch.
He laid his hand tenderly on her bowed head, and in low, earnest tones confessed for her that she was a sinner, lost and undone without theatoning blood of Christ; that she had in herself, no power and no desire to turn from sin unto holiness, that she had often rejected God’s offered mercy and forgiveness, and refused to accept the Saviour’s gracious invitation, ‘Come unto me;’ then he pleaded for her that her sins might be forgiven and blotted out, for Jesus’ sake; that he would take away all the evil of her nature, wash her thoroughly from her iniquity and cleanse her from her sin, and enable her to give herself wholly and unreservedly to his service.
As his voice ceased she followed him in a few broken sentences:
“Dear Lord Jesus, I am a great sinner, just as papa has said, and oh, I am afraid I don’t want to be any better, but please make me want to, and to love to belong to thee even more than I do to be papa’s very own. I will, I do give myself to thee. Oh, take me and make me all good, no bad at all left in me. For thine own name’s sake. Amen.”
For some moments there seemed a solemn stillness in the room, she still kneeling there, with her father’s hand resting tenderly on her head, then in low tremulous tones:
“Papa,” she asked, “do you think he heard me, and will take me for his?”
“I know it, my child, if you asked with yourheart, as I believe you did, for he is the hearer and answerer of prayer!”
Then again he poured out an earnest supplication on her behalf, asking that she might be kept ever near the Saviour’s side, growing in grace and conformity to his will all the days of her life on earth, and at last be taken to dwell forever with him in heaven.
Again a solemn hush, broken at length by Lulu’s voice in low, sweet tones, “Papa, I think he has heard our prayers. I do begin to love him in my heart and to want to be his.”
“‘Bless the Lord, oh, my soul; and all that is within me, bless his holy name!’” ejaculated her father, his tones tremulous with emotion. Then, as she rose from her kneeling posture, he drew her to his breast and held her there in a long, tender embrace ere he bade her good-night, and sent her away to her rest.