Martha Finley

—Montgomery.

Mrs. Carrington obeyed with all speed the call to come to the aid of her unworthy nephew, and her arrival was not delayed many days after that of their kind entertainers.

She received a cordial welcome; but since that first day the ladies and children of the family had seen very little of her, for Boyd had taken to his bed, and she devoted herself to him.

The gentlemen frequently spent a little time in his room, induced thereto by motives of kindness, but the others never approached it.

Elsie looked upon him as the would-be murderer of her husband, and could scarcely think of him without a shudder.

She was willing, even anxious to give him every comfort that money could buy, and that every effort should be made by her father and others to lead him to repentance and faith in Christ to the saving of his soul; but she shrank from seeing him, though she made kind inquiries, sent messages, and offered many sincere and fervent prayers on his behalf. Strolling about the grounds one afternoon with her little ones, she saw her father coming towards her.

Something in the expression of his countenance as he drew rapidly nearer startled her with a vague fear.

"What is it, papa?" she asked tremulously.

"Take my arm," he said, offering it. "I have something to say to you. Rosie, do you and Walter go to your mammy."

The children obeyed, while he and their mother turned into another path.

Elsie's heart was beating very fast. "Papa, is—is anything wrong with—"

"With any of your loved ones? No, daughter: they are all safe and well so far as I know. But I have a message for you—a request which it will not be easy or pleasant for you to grant, or to refuse. Boyd is drawing very near his end, and with a mind full of horror and despair. He says there is no hope, no mercy for him—nothing but the blackness of darkness forever."

Elsie's eyes overflowed. "Poor, poor fellow! Papa, can nothing be done for him?"

"Could you bear to go to him?" he asked tenderly. "Forgive me, dear child, for paining you with such a suggestion; but the poor wretch thinks he could die easier if he heard you say that you forgive him."

There was a shudder, a moment's struggle with herself; then she said, very low and sadly, "Yes, papa, I will go at once. How selfish I have been in staying away so long. But—O Edward! my husband, my husband!"

He soothed her very tenderly for a moment, then asked gently, "Would he not have bidden you go?"

"Oh, yes, yes: he would have forgiven, he did forgive him with all his great, generous heart. And, God helping me, so will I. I am ready to go."

"Lost, lost, lost! no hope, no help, the blackness of darkness forever!" were the words, uttered in piercing tones, full of anguish and despair, that greeted Elsie's ears as her father softly opened the door of Boyd's room and led her in.

At those sounds, at the sight that met her view—the wretched man with the seal of death on his haggard, emaciated face, seamed and scarred beyond all recognition, tossing restlessly from side to side, while he rent the air with his cries—she turned so sick and faint that she staggered, and but for the support of her father's arm would have fallen to the floor.

"Call up all your courage, my dear child," he whispered, leaning over her, "look to the Lord for strength, and who shall say you may not he able to do the poor dying wretch some good?" She struggled determinately with her faintness, and they drew near the bed.

Boyd started up at sight of her, thrusting the maimed hand under the bedclothes, and holding out the other with a ghastly smile.

"You're an angel, Mrs. Travilla!" he gasped, "an angel of mercy to a miserable wretch whom you've a good right to hate."

"No," she said, taking the hand in a kindly grasp, "I have no right to hate you, or any one—I whose sins against my Lord are far, far greater than yours against me or mine. I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven. May God forgive you also."

"No, no, it is too late, too late for that!" he groaned. "I have sinned against light and knowledge. He has called and I refused many, many times; and now the door is shut."

"It is your adversary the devil who tells you that," she said, tears streaming from her eyes; "he would destroy your soul: but the words of Jesus are, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out?' 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.'"

"Ah, but he also says, 'Because I have called and ye refused; I have stretched out my hand, and no man regarded; but ye have set at naught all my counsel, and would none of my reproof; I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock when your fear cometh; when your fear cometh as desolation, and your destruction cometh as a whirlwind; when distress and anguish cometh upon you. Then shall they call upon me, but I will not answer.' Oh it's all true, every word of it!" he cried, with a look of horror and despair that none who saw it could ever forget, "I feel it in my inmost soul. There was a time when mercy's door was open to me, but it's shut now, shut forever."

"O George, George!" sobbed his aunt, "the invitation is without limit—'whosoever will;' if you have a will to come, it cannot be that it is even now too late."

"But those words—those dreadful words," he said, turning eagerly toward her, "Then shall they call upon me, but I will not answer.'"

"Are addressed to those who desire deliverance, not from sin itself, but only from its punishment," said Mr. Dinsmore. "If you have any desire to be saved from your sins, to be cleansed from their pollution, to be made holy, it is not too late—the 'whosoever will' is for you."

He shook his head sadly. "I don't know, I don't know, a death-bed is a poor place to analyze one's feelings. Oh! warn men everywhere not to put it off, not to put it off! Tell them it is running a fearful risk."

"We will, we will," said his aunt; "but, O George, think of yourself: 'cry to Jesus, he is able to save to the uttermost,' and he has no pleasure in the death of any soul; he would have you turn now and live: oh cry to him for mercy!"

"Too late, too late!" he muttered faintly, "the door is shut."

They knelt about his bed and poured out fervent prayers for him; they repeated promise after promise, invitations and assurances from the word, of God's willingness to save.

At last, "I'm going, going!" he gasped. "Oh God be merciful to me a sinner!" And with the last word the spirit took its flight.

Mrs. Carrington sank, half fainting, into Elsie's arms, and Mr. Dinsmore and the doctor bore her from the room.

It was Elsie's sad task to try to comfort and console where there was little to build hope upon: she could but dwell upon God's great mercy, his willingness to save, and the possibility that that last dying cry came from a truly penitent heart.

"I must try to believe it, else my heart would break!" cried the old lady. "O Elsie, my heart has bled for you, but your sorrow is not like unto my sorrow! You can rest in the sure and certain hope of a blissful reunion, you know that your beloved is rejoicing before the throne; while I—alas, alas! I know not where my poor boy is. And I am tortured with the fear that some of his blood may be found in my skirts—that I did not guide and instruct, warn and entreat him as I might; that my prayers were not frequent and fervent enough, my example all that it should have been."

"My dear friend, 'who is sufficient for these things?'" Elsie answered, weeping; "who has not reason for such self reproach? I think not you more than the rest of us."

"Ah!" sighed the old lady, "I wish that were so: had I but been to him, and to my own children, the mother you are to yours, my conscience would not now trouble me as it does."

Mrs. Travilla had caused a room to be fitted up as a studio for her older daughters, and here they were spending their afternoon—Vi painting, Elsie modelling and thinking, the while, of her absent lover, perchance busy in his studio with hammer and chisel.

"The sun is setting," exclaimed Violet at length, throwing down her brush. "What can have become of mamma that she has not been in to watch our progress?"

"I hope she has been taking a drive," Elsie answered, ceasing work also. "Come, let us go and dress for tea, Vi; it is high time."

They hastened to do so, and had scarcely completed their toilet when Harold rapped and asked if mamma were there.

"No? Where can she have gone?" he said. "Herbie and I came in from fishing a little while ago, and we have hunted for her almost everywhere."

"Except in the nursery," suggested Herbert. "Let's go and see if she's there."

"The carriage is driving up," said Vi, glancing through the window; "probably mamma is in it," and all four hurried down to the front veranda eager to meet and welcome her.

Their old grandfather alighted, handed out Grandma Rose, Aunt Enna, Isa, and then, with the help of one of the servant men, Molly.

The carriage door closed. Mamma was not there. Indeed their grandma and Isa were asking for her as they came up the steps.

And childish voices were now heard in their rear making the same inquiry—Rosie and Walter coming from the nursery in search of the mother they never willingly lost sight of for an hour.

"Why, what can have become of mamma? Rosie, when did you see her last?" asked Harold.

"Out on the lawn. She was walking with us, and grandpa came and took her away."

"Where to?"

"I don't know," answered the child, bursting into tears.

"There, there, don't cry; dear mamma's sure to be safe along with grandpa," Harold said, putting his arms around his little sister. "And here he comes to tell us about her," he added joyously, as Mr. Dinsmore was seen coming down the hall.

They crowded about him, the same question on every tongue.

"She is with Mrs. Carrington," he said, patting the heads of the weeping Rosie and Walter. "Don't cry, my children. She may not be able to join us at tea, but you shall see her before you go to your beds."

Then to the older ones, speaking in a subdued tone, "Boyd is gone, and his aunt is much overcome."

"Gone, Horace!" exclaimed his wife, looking shocked and awe-struck: "how did he die? was there any ground for hope?"

"Very little," he sighed, "that is the saddest part of it. The body will be sent away to-night," he added, in answer to a question from his father; "he is to be buried with the rest of his family. Mrs. Carrington will not go with it, will probably remain here through the winter."

All felt it a relief that the burial was not to be near at hand, or the corpse to remain many hours in the house—"a wicked man's corpse," as Harold said with a shudder, but all were saddened and horror-struck at the thought that he had gone leaving so little reason for hope of his salvation. They gathered at the supper-table a very quiet, solemn company; few words were spoken; the little ones missed their mother and were glad to get away to the nursery, where she presently came to them, looking sad and with traces of recent tears about her eyes.

But she smiled very sweetly upon them, kissed them tenderly, and sitting down, took Walter on her lap and put an arm round Rosie as she stood by her side.

They were curious to know about Mr. Boyd, asking if he had gone to heaven where dear papa and Lily were.

"I do not know, my darlings," she answered, the tears coming into her eyes again; "he is there if he repented of his sins against God, and trusted in Jesus."

Then she talked to them, as often before, of the dear Saviour—the great love wherewith he loves his people, and the many mansions he is preparing for them.

She spoke to them, too, of God's hatred of sin, and the need of watchfulness and prayer.

"The devil hates us, my darlings," she said; "he goes about like a roaring lion, seeking to kill our souls; but Jesus loves us, he is stronger than Satan, and if we keep close to him we are safe."

Having seen them safe in bed, she went to her dressing-room, to find the other four there waiting for her. They gathered about her with glad, loving looks and words, each eager to anticipate her wishes and to be the first to wait upon her.

"My dear children," she said, smiling through glistening tears, "your love is very sweet to me!"

"And what do you think yours is to us, mamma?" exclaimed Violet, kneeling at her mother's feet and clasping her arms about her waist, while she lifted to hers a face glowing with ardent affection and admiration.

"Just the same, I hope and believe;" and with the words the mother's hand passed caressingly over the golden curls.

"Mamma, you have been crying very much," remarked Harold sorrowfully. "I wish—"

"Well, my son?" as he paused, leaving his sentence unfinished.

"I wish I could make you so happy that you would never want to shed a tear."

"When I get to heaven, my dear boy, it will be so with me. 'God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.' And that is where your dear papa is now. Oh how glad we ought to be for him!" she said with mingled smiles and tears. "'Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord:' but oh, it is not so, my children, with those who have not chosen him for their portion! 'for to them is reserved the blackness of darkness for ever.'"

There was a slight solemn pause, all thinking of the wretched man who had passed away from earth that afternoon.

"Mamma," asked Harold at last, speaking in a subdued tone, "do you think it is so with Mr. Boyd?"

"My son," she said gently, "that is a question we are not called upon to decide; we can only leave him in the hands of God, in full confidence that the Judge of all the earth will do right."

"Mamma, would you like to tell us about it?" asked Herbert.

"It is a painful subject," she sighed, "but—yes, I will tell you, that it may be a warning to you all your lives."

They listened with awe-struck faces, and with tears of pity, as she went on to give a graphic picture of that death scene so different from the one they had witnessed a few short months ago.

"Oh my children," she said, "live not for time, but for eternity! remembering that this life is but a preparation for another and endless existence. 'Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness.' 'Count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus our Lord.' Choose his service now while youth and health are yours, and when death comes you will have nothing to fear. 'The wicked is driven away in his wickedness: but the righteous hath hope in his death.' 'Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. For he that soweth to his flesh, shall of the flesh reap corruption: but he that soweth to the Spirit, shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting.'"

"Yes, mamma," Elsie said in a half-whisper, the tears stealing down her cheeks, "surely we have seen it fulfilled in these last few months. Our beloved father sowed to the Spirit, and what a joyous reaping is his! How calmly and sweetly he fell asleep in Jesus."

"Yes," the mother said, mingling her tears with theirs—for all were weeping now—yet with a light shining in her eyes, "I am full of joy and thankfulness to-night in the midst of my grief. Oh how should we love and rejoice in this dear Saviour, who through his own death has given eternal life to him and to us; and to as many as God has given him—to all that will come to him for it."