WHEN the doctor was left alone with the old man he set himself first of all to do what he could for his comfort. He shook up the dirty cushion and pillows with which he was propped up, and with his careful hands moved him gently into an easier position, and straightened the ragged blanket which was his only covering. Then he found a kettle on the hearth, black with the soot of ages, and, seeing a can of water standing near, he poured some in and boiled it on the fire. Then he sponged the sick man’s face and hands, which were covered with the grime of weeks of neglect, using his own pocket-handkerchief as a sponge, and drying them on a cloth hanging on a nail in the door. Then he washed out one of the dirty cups, dried it by the fire, and, seeing some milk in a jug, he warmed it in a small saucepan, which he also had to cleanse before using, and gave it gently and slowly, a spoonful at a time, to the poor old man. The warm milk revived him, and when he had finished it he spoke to Forester for the first time.
‘Say a prayer,’ he said.
Forester started; he had never prayed with anyone in his life. He did not answer for a moment, and again the old man addressed him:
‘Do say a prayer,’ he pleaded.
Once more Forester devoutly wished that he were Jack. Jack would have known exactly what to say, and how to comfort the dying man in his time of need; but he—what could he do? Then a prayer that his mother had taught him years ago, when he was a tiny boy, almost a baby, flashed into his mind, and, bending over the old man, he repeated slowly, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’
‘To me a sinner,’ said the sick man; ‘to me a sinner.’
Soon after this he seemed to breathe more quietly, and the doctor glancing at him saw that he was fast asleep. Then the watcher sat down to rest, tired with his long tramp in the wind and the rain. The air of the room was close and stifling, redolent of the fumes of whisky and the odor of stale tobacco, but he dare not open the window, for the cottage faced the sea, and the wind had become a fearful hurricane. It seemed to him sometimes as if the window would be blown in, and the howling in the chimney was frightful.
Forester went quietly into a small outhouse, found a little coal, and threw it on the fire, which was fast dying out. Then he tried to think of all manner of things, to make the time pass quickly. It seemed like a horrible dream, to be sitting in this strange and dirty place in the middle of the night, and the very wildness of the weather added to the weirdness of the situation. He could hear, whenever the wind lulled for a moment, that great waves were beating on the rocks close by. He wondered if they ever came as far as the cottage; it seemed to him sometimes as if he were on board ship, and at the mercy of wind and tide.
What a long night it was! Would it never be morning? The old man still slept, and as Forester bent over him from time to time he wondered if he would awake better and easier. He thought of the whisper he had overheard, which seemed to imply the existence of some secret which was not to be told. What could it be that the son was so anxious that the father should not tell? Probably they were poachers or smugglers, and were afraid of their doings being brought to light. An old gun was standing in one corner of the room. Was it loaded? he wondered. The woods were enclosed with wire and there seemed to be a good staff of gamekeepers, and surely with a coastguard station close by smuggling would not be easy. For what purpose, then, was the gun used? What tale could it tell if it was able to speak?
Just then the fire, which had begun to revive, shot up a bright flame, and by its light Forester saw something sparkle underneath the old sofa. What could it be? A pair of scissors, perhaps. The flame died down and he could see nothing, but he felt about with his hand on the ground underneath the couch, and came upon a small hard object lying against one of the legs. He picked it up and brought it to the fire to examine it. To his astonishment he found it was a small golden crucifix, at least it looked like gold, though he argued with himself that possibly it was only gilded. Yet it was a strange thing to find there. Could the old man and his son be Papists? he wondered, and supposing they were, why did they not take more care of their crucifix? He laid it beside him on the table, but he took it up several times after that and examined it in the firelight, and the longer he looked at it the more convinced he felt that it was made of solid gold; and he also noticed that the figure on the cross was beautifully carved and bore evidence of skillful workmanship. He marveled more and more that such a costly thing should have found its way into that forlorn cottage by the sea.
A short time after this the doctor was startled by hearing a whistle outside. Was it the wind in the chimney? No, he was sure it was a human whistle, and it was repeated several times. The old man was still sleeping, and he was unwilling to disturb him by moving across the room; but when the whistle was followed by a low knock at the door he decided to go to it, that he might see who was outside.
Opening the door only a little way because of the violence of the wind, Forester peered out into the darkness, and at first could see no one. But when his eyes were more accustomed to the dim light he could just distinguish the figure of a man standing by the gate. He seemed to be wearing a long ulster which came down to his boots—the collar was turned up, and a cap was drawn tightly down over his eyes. Forester could not see his face; it was too dark for that.
‘Let me in, Dan, quick!’ he said.
‘Dan has gone to fetch the doctor to see his father,’ said Forester; ‘the old man is very ill. What do you want?’
‘Oh, nothing of consequence,’ said the man— ‘goodnight’; and in another moment he was gone.
Forester went back to his place by the fire considerably puzzled. Where had he heard that voice before? He tried to remember, but he tried in vain. Perhaps it reminded him of someone with whom he had travelled. Or was it like the voice of some patient of his in London? Voices were often somewhat similar, so there was really nothing remarkable about that. But it did strike him as strange that a visitor should come to that cottage on the shore in the middle of the night, and especially on such a wild night as that.
At length the weary hours passed by and it began to get light. Now the doctor could look out of the window and see a little of his surroundings. Far in front of him stretched the sea, covered with white horses rearing their heads in the wind. The tide was going out, and the rocky shore was strewn with masses of seaweed which had been brought up by the storm.
Presently the old man awoke and began to groan again. Forester raked together the fire, heated some milk, and gave it to him as before. Then he felt his pulse, and found it more rapid and feeble than the night before.
The rain had stopped and the sun was shining brightly when at length he heard the welcome sound of footsteps. Dan was returning at last. He came in with the same surly expression he had worn the night before.
‘Well, what about the doctor?’ Forester asked.
‘Oh, the doctor—he’s going to ride over after breakfast, he says. He doesn’t hurry his self, doesn’t doctor.’
‘Then I’ll go home now,’ said Forester. ‘I’ve just given your father some milk; give him some more in about an hour if he’s awake. By the bye, I picked this up under your sofa last night; I saw it shine in the firelight. You should take more care of your valuables, and not leave them lying on the floor.’
The man looked at him with his rat-like eyes, as if he would read his very thoughts, and then said carelessly, as he took up the gold crucifix: ‘Oh, that old thing. It must have tumbled down. It belonged to my mother; she brought it from old Ireland with her. She was a Paddy and a Catholic, was my mother.’
Forester was thankful to get out of the stifling atmosphere of the dirty cottage and to be able to return to his tent. He had some difficulty in finding his way. He discovered, however, that he was in the quiet little cove of which Mr. Norris had told him, and after making his way to the top of the rugged path which led down to it, he found himself on the high road to Hildick, and was able to discover in which direction to go. It was nearly seven o’clock when he reached his tent, and he thought it was too late to go to bed again. They would be expecting him on the shore to bathe, and would be amused to hear of his night’s adventure.
So the doctor got his towels and ran down the hill, that he might wash off the dirty, smoky atmosphere of the cottage which, in his fancy, still clung to him. There was no swimming to be done that morning, for the sea was far too rough, so the bathe was soon over. Forester went to the Bank for breakfast as usual, and on the way there told Jack and Don of the strange night he had spent.
‘I think I had better go and see that old man,’ said Jack.
‘Yes, do. He wanted me to pray with him in the night, but that’s more in your line than mine.’
‘We’ll walk over together after dinner, if you like.’
Forester agreed, and that afternoon the two friends crossed the moor, and managed to find the short way across the fields by which the doctor’s surly guide had taken him the night before. When they reached the cottage they found the door a little way open and walked in. Dan was lying asleep on the old couch with his empty pipe in his mouth. The fire had burnt low, and the place looked even more desolate than the night before. The old man opened his eyes when they went in, and seemed pleased to see Forester.
‘Well, did the doctor come?’
‘Yes, he came, and he gave me some’at to ease the pain like.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Said as he couldn’t do naught much for me; I was too far through.’
His breathing was very bad, and the words came with difficulty.
‘I’ve brought my friend here to see you,’ said Forester.
‘Who be you?’ asked the old man.
‘I’m looking after the parish here for your vicar,’ said Jack; ‘and I thought perhaps you would like me to come and see you.’
‘Parson, be you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hush, don’t wake him,’ pointing as he spoke to the couch; ‘he can’t abide parsons! But I’m glad you’ve come. I want—’
A fit of coughing stopped him speaking, and this brought on the pain so badly that for some moments nothing more could be said. But Forester’s gentle hands had applied the liniment, which the doctor had brought with him and which he found on the table, to the place where the pain was most acute, and after a time the old man was easier.
‘Have you come to pray with me?’ he asked. ‘He did in the night,’ pointing to Forester. ‘I haven’t forgot your prayer, master: “God be merciful to me a sinner.”’
Jack turned to his friend, who glanced shyly at him, and then walked to the window, and stood with his back to the bed, looking out at the sea.
‘That’s a beautiful prayer!’ said Jack; ‘have you said it for yourself?’
‘Ay, many a time. God be merciful to me a sinner. Yes, and I am a sinner. I know that, a great sinner.’
‘But, thank God, there is a great Saviour for you,’ said Jack in his cheery voice. ‘You say you are a great sinner, and God must punish sin; do you know that? God can’t just forgive you and let bygones be bygones, and take no further notice of your sins, because that wouldn’t be just. But God loved you so, that He let His dear Son be punished instead of you.’
‘Ay, He died on the cross, didn’t He?’
‘Yes, for you.’
‘Was it for me?—Are you sure?’
‘Yes, quite sure.’
‘Then what have I got to do?’
‘Thank Him,’ said Jack.
‘Thank Him?’
‘Yes, tell Him you are a great sinner, and that you think Him for dying instead of you, and ask Him to be your own Saviour.’
‘Will you ask Him?’
‘Yes, I’ll ask Him; but that isn’t enough, you must ask Him yourself. Would you like to ask Him now?’
Very simple was the short prayer that followed. Jack knelt by the bed. Forester still stood by the window, but he covered his face with his hand, and the old man in a feeble voice repeated, sentence by sentence, the words of the prayer.
They were just leaving the cottage when the man on the sofa woke and glared at them both.
‘Oh, it’s Dr. Forester,’ he said. ‘Well, you needn’t come any more now; we’ve got the doctor from over yonder in attendance, and it’ll be all right about the inkwitch.’
‘Hold your tongue, man; do you know what you are saying? Don’t let your poor old father hear you talk like that!’
‘I like to see ‘em, Dan,’ said the old man.
‘Well, maybe you do,’ he said; ‘but all the same, there’s nothing more to be done now. So you young gents may as well go and enjoy yourselves on the shore. Good afternoon to you both.’
‘A surly chap that,’ said Jack; ‘and a rascal too, I should imagine. I wonder who they are?’
They went into the Castle to see old Mr. Norris on their way back, and told him where they had been, and asked him if he knew anything of the two men in the cottage by the shore. He said that he had seen them once or twice when they had passed by the gate, but they had not been very long in the neighborhood. They came, he understood, from somewhere up north, and they had come to Dundry Bay for crab fishing. Old Maxie had had many a tussle with them over it, for Maxie looked upon all the crabs in the sea as his private property. They had made no friends in Hildick, and the village people looked upon them with suspicion and distrust. More than that he could not tell them—and he did not think that anyone in the place knew any more about them.
That night, as Jack Mainwaring knelt to say his prayers, his thoughts went to the old man whom he had visited that afternoon, and who was dying in that lonely cottage by the sea; and he prayed that his few feeble words might be used by the Spirit of God to bring him out of darkness into light; and that he might see how willing God was to save him, and might by the hand of faith grasp the loving, Almighty Hand which would draw him safely through the river of death, and would land him in the glory and light of the shore beyond.
So Jack prayed; but how little he thought that those few simple words had done more than that; how little he knew that the message of salvation, so feebly spoken, had been received, and gladly received, by another heart.
It was not until years afterwards that he heard that Norman Forester, instead of going to bed that night when he returned to his tent, walked in the starlight to the very end of the promontory, and that in that quiet place, where no sound was to be heard but the gentle lapping of the waves upon the shore below, he felt himself indeed alone with God. And then, as he sat there on the rocks, he seemed to hear again the conversation to which he had listened in the cottage. First came his friend Jack’s voice: ‘He loved you so that He let His dear Son be punished instead of you.’
And then the answer in the feeble whisper of the dying man: ‘Ay, He died on the cross, didn’t He?’
‘Yes, for you.’
‘Was it for me?—Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Then what have I got to do?’
‘Thank Him.’
‘And I’ve never done it,’ said Forester; ‘I’ve never thanked Him. I’ve lived all my life without doing it. I’ve pleased myself as far as I could, and I’ve tried to make the best of life; but I’ve never thanked Him.’
‘Was it for me?—Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
The words came back to him again and again. He got up, climbed the hill again, and paced about on the moor. He saw himself, as he had never seen himself before, a sinner in need of a Savior. And that nights he realized how ungrateful he had been. A Saviour provided for him, and at such a cost, and he had never even said, ‘Thank you.’ But he said it that night, and his thanksgiving took the form of familiar words, which he had known from his earliest childhood:
‘I thank Thee for my creation, preservation, and all the blessings of this life; but, above all, for Thine inestimable love in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ.’ And to these words he added some of his own: ‘I thank Thee, Lord Jesus, that Thou hast died instead of me.’ And then the well-known thanksgiving went on again. ‘I beseech Thee to give me that due sense of all Thy mercies, that my heart may be unfeignedly thankful, that I may show forth Thy praise not only with my lips, but in my life, by giving up myself to Thy service, and by walking before Thee in holiness and righteousness all my days.’
Yes, from that night Norman Forester’s was a consecrated life, dedicated to the service of his Lord. The same plain, unvarnished gospel message which had guided the poor, ignorant old man had led into light and joy and peace the clever and talented young doctor.
But Jack did not know this at the time. It was a seed cast upon the waters, and it was not until after many days that he found it again, and discovered, to his joy and thankfulness, that it had borne such glorious fruit.
The next day he and Forester again crossed the hill to visit the old man. But when they arrived at the cottage they found the door locked, and no sign of anyone about the place. Forester went to the window and looked in.
‘Dead,’ he said shortly. ‘I thought he wouldn’t be long, poor old chap.’
The next day there was a funeral in the old churchyard— Jack’s first and only funeral whilst taking the duty at Hildick. The son stood by the grave, the only mourner. He had put on a black tie, but that was the only difference in his attire, and he was barely sober as he walked with unsteady footsteps after the coffin.
Forester stood at a little distance hidden by a high tombstone, and listened whilst Jack committed the poor old body to the dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through Jesus Christ our Lord. He felt that he would meet the old man again, and he wondered what he would be like in that other life where we shall all learn so much.
‘Queer chap that!’ said the old gravedigger, as he watched Dan slouching out of the churchyard. ‘Anybody with eyes in their head can see that he’s not a Hildick man; we don’t make that article here. No, nor we don’t want to,’ he added, as he shoveled in the earth and filled up the old man’s grave.