“Now I further saw, that between them and the gate was a river.”—Pilgrim’s Progress
“Well, as you please, but I would not do so,” said Mr. Hope, in conversation with Mr. Ewart in the saloon.
“The doctors gave no hope, and I think that in such cases it is only right—it is only kind to let the patient know his danger.”
“Your ideas are different to mine: the shock of being told that you are dying is enough to put out the last spark of life.”
“Not to one who has the faith of Ernest.”
“You would then only hide the truth from a bad man?”
“I would hide it from none; I would act towards others as I should wish them to act towards me. It is cruel to conceal1 their state from the dying; to send them into the presence of their Maker2 unwarned, perhaps unprepared.”
[265]
“Well, you must break the truth to Ernest yourself, I will not undertake to do it. You know his feelings better than I do, I never could understand them at all.”
Bowed down with affliction, yet with sufficient self-command to be calm and composed in his manner, Mr. Ewart approached the bed-side of Ernest.
“What do the doctors say of me?” asked Fontonore.
“They say that the injuries which you have received are very severe.”
“I thought so—I suffer so much pain. I daresay that it will be long before I quite recover. But you see,” he added, with a faint smile, “good comes out of evil in this case. I took advantage of the privilege of illness, and the claim which your having saved me has given you, and asked my uncle a favour which he could not refuse me; nor will you, I am sure, dear Mr. Ewart: you will be tutor at Fontonore again!”
The clergyman pressed in silence the feverish3 hand held out to him; he could not at that moment reply.
“We shall be so happy, if I only get well! You do not know how we have missed you! You will—will you not?—be the pilgrim’s guide again!”
“You have come to a part of your journey, my beloved pupil, in which God can alone be your guide.” He felt that the deep eyes of Ernest were riveted4 upon him; he could not endure to meet their inquiring gaze. Shading his own with his hand, he continued: “When
[266]
Christian had passed through the land of Beulah, and drew near to the celestial5 city, he saw a river flowing before him—”
“The river of death!” murmured Ernest, and for some moments there was profound silence in the room. It was first broken by the voice of the sufferer.
“Is there no chance of my recovery?”
“I fear none,” faltered6 the clergyman.
“And how long do the doctors think that this will last?”
“Not many days,” replied Mr. Ewart, in a tone scarcely audible.
Again there was a long solemn silence.
“I thank you for telling me this,” said Ernest at last. “I little thought that I was so near the end of my pilgrimage—that I was so very near my rest. I have often wondered,” he added faintly, “how I should meet this hour—whether in joy, or in trouble and fear. I feel little of either just now—perhaps because I am weak and in pain—but a quiet trust in my Saviour7, because, however sinful I have been, I know, I feel that I love Him!”
There are many lying on a sick-bed, who could hardly give a reason for the hope that is in them—whose feeble minds have scarcely power to grasp the simplest text—to whom it would be impossible to review their past lives; but who can yet rest calmly and securely on the
[267]
thought, “Lord, Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I love Thee!”
After a while, the sufferer spoke8 again.
“Where is Charley? Why is he not with me?”
“It was feared that his grief might agitate9 you.”
“Poor dear Charley!” said Ernest with tenderness; “it will be a pleasure to him now to think that we always have loved one another. But I should greatly like to see him; I have so much to say to him before we part.”
“I will call him,” said Mr. Ewart, rising.
He found poor Charles weeping at the door.
“You must command yourself, dear boy, for his sake. Ernest has asked to see you.”
Charles dashed the drops from his eyes, and made a strong effort to be calm, though the convulsive quivering of his lip showed the intensity10 of his feelings. With noiseless step he glided11 to the bed-side: his brother received him with a faint smile.
“Heaven orders all things well, Charley,” he whispered; “I always felt that you were better fitted than I to be the Lord of Fontonore. The time which we have spent together will seem to you soon like a strange dream that is past; but you will not forget me, Charley, mine own brother—you will not forget me?”
Charles hid his face in his hands.
“And you will be kind to some for my sake. Poor
[268]
Madge! you will not desert her, nor turn away Ben and Jack12?”
“I shall never endure the sight of that boy!” exclaimed Charles, in an agitated13 voice. “He has given you nothing but torment14, and now has cost a life ten million times more precious than his own.”
“He may have been saved for better things, and then my life will have been well bestowed15.”
Mr. Ewart left the two brothers alone together, and with a slow, sad step, proceeded along the corridor, proposing to visit the gardener’s cottage, to which Jack had now returned.
He met Clementina on the staircase.
“Oh, Mr. Ewart, is it possible—is he really dying?” exclaimed the young lady in unaffected sorrow: “so young, and with everything to make life sweet; it is really too dreadful to think of! Does he know the doctor’s opinion?”
“He knows all, and is perfectly16 tranquil17.”
“What wonderful strength of mind!”
“The Lord is his strength,” replied the clergyman, and passed on.
Many an anxious inquiry18 after the young lord had Mr. Ewart to answer from different members of the household, before he reached the gardener’s cottage. He was desirous to know what effect his own deliverance and Ernest’s danger would have upon the mind of young Lawless.
[269]
He did not see Jack as he entered the cottage, and asked the gardener’s wife where he was.
“Oh, he’s there on the bed, sir, with his face to the wall. He’s never moved, nor spoken, nor tasted a morsel19, since he heard that the young lord lay a-dying. I can’t get him to answer a question; he lies there as still as a stone. I can’t say if he feels it or not, he has such a strange sullen20 way.”
Mr. Ewart seated himself close to the boy, who appeared to take no notice of his presence.
“You are not suffering, I hope, from your fall? Yours has been a wonderful preservation21; but for the generous courage of Lord Fontonore, you would have been now before the judgment-seat of God.”
Lawless gave no sign that he heard him.
“I have just quitted his sick-room,” continued the clergyman. “He is quite calm in the prospect22 of death, for his life has for long been one preparation for it. The last words that I heard him utter were of you;—he was recommending you to the kindness of his brother.”
Lawless convulsively clutched his pillow.
“He said,” added Mr. Ewart, “that if you were but saved for better things, his life would have been well bestowed.”
Jack suddenly half raised himself upon his bed, then dashed himself down again with frantic23 violence. “I can’t bear this,” he cried, in a choking voice. “I wish he
[270]
would hate me, abuse me, trample24 upon me; anything would be better than this!”
Yes, under all the deep crust of selfishness, malice25, and pride, lay a spring of feeling, in the depths of that unconverted heart. That spring had been reached, the deep buried waters gushed26 forth27, and the clergyman left the cottage with a faint but precious hope that his loved pupil had not suffered in vain.
“The doctors gave no hope, and I think that in such cases it is only right—it is only kind to let the patient know his danger.”
“Your ideas are different to mine: the shock of being told that you are dying is enough to put out the last spark of life.”
“Not to one who has the faith of Ernest.”
“You would then only hide the truth from a bad man?”
“I would hide it from none; I would act towards others as I should wish them to act towards me. It is cruel to conceal1 their state from the dying; to send them into the presence of their Maker2 unwarned, perhaps unprepared.”
[265]
“Well, you must break the truth to Ernest yourself, I will not undertake to do it. You know his feelings better than I do, I never could understand them at all.”
Bowed down with affliction, yet with sufficient self-command to be calm and composed in his manner, Mr. Ewart approached the bed-side of Ernest.
“What do the doctors say of me?” asked Fontonore.
“They say that the injuries which you have received are very severe.”
“I thought so—I suffer so much pain. I daresay that it will be long before I quite recover. But you see,” he added, with a faint smile, “good comes out of evil in this case. I took advantage of the privilege of illness, and the claim which your having saved me has given you, and asked my uncle a favour which he could not refuse me; nor will you, I am sure, dear Mr. Ewart: you will be tutor at Fontonore again!”
The clergyman pressed in silence the feverish3 hand held out to him; he could not at that moment reply.
“We shall be so happy, if I only get well! You do not know how we have missed you! You will—will you not?—be the pilgrim’s guide again!”
“You have come to a part of your journey, my beloved pupil, in which God can alone be your guide.” He felt that the deep eyes of Ernest were riveted4 upon him; he could not endure to meet their inquiring gaze. Shading his own with his hand, he continued: “When
[266]
Christian had passed through the land of Beulah, and drew near to the celestial5 city, he saw a river flowing before him—”
“The river of death!” murmured Ernest, and for some moments there was profound silence in the room. It was first broken by the voice of the sufferer.
“Is there no chance of my recovery?”
“I fear none,” faltered6 the clergyman.
“And how long do the doctors think that this will last?”
“Not many days,” replied Mr. Ewart, in a tone scarcely audible.
Again there was a long solemn silence.
“I thank you for telling me this,” said Ernest at last. “I little thought that I was so near the end of my pilgrimage—that I was so very near my rest. I have often wondered,” he added faintly, “how I should meet this hour—whether in joy, or in trouble and fear. I feel little of either just now—perhaps because I am weak and in pain—but a quiet trust in my Saviour7, because, however sinful I have been, I know, I feel that I love Him!”
There are many lying on a sick-bed, who could hardly give a reason for the hope that is in them—whose feeble minds have scarcely power to grasp the simplest text—to whom it would be impossible to review their past lives; but who can yet rest calmly and securely on the
[267]
thought, “Lord, Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I love Thee!”
After a while, the sufferer spoke8 again.
“Where is Charley? Why is he not with me?”
“It was feared that his grief might agitate9 you.”
“Poor dear Charley!” said Ernest with tenderness; “it will be a pleasure to him now to think that we always have loved one another. But I should greatly like to see him; I have so much to say to him before we part.”
“I will call him,” said Mr. Ewart, rising.
He found poor Charles weeping at the door.
“You must command yourself, dear boy, for his sake. Ernest has asked to see you.”
Charles dashed the drops from his eyes, and made a strong effort to be calm, though the convulsive quivering of his lip showed the intensity10 of his feelings. With noiseless step he glided11 to the bed-side: his brother received him with a faint smile.
“Heaven orders all things well, Charley,” he whispered; “I always felt that you were better fitted than I to be the Lord of Fontonore. The time which we have spent together will seem to you soon like a strange dream that is past; but you will not forget me, Charley, mine own brother—you will not forget me?”
Charles hid his face in his hands.
“And you will be kind to some for my sake. Poor
[268]
Madge! you will not desert her, nor turn away Ben and Jack12?”
“I shall never endure the sight of that boy!” exclaimed Charles, in an agitated13 voice. “He has given you nothing but torment14, and now has cost a life ten million times more precious than his own.”
“He may have been saved for better things, and then my life will have been well bestowed15.”
Mr. Ewart left the two brothers alone together, and with a slow, sad step, proceeded along the corridor, proposing to visit the gardener’s cottage, to which Jack had now returned.
He met Clementina on the staircase.
“Oh, Mr. Ewart, is it possible—is he really dying?” exclaimed the young lady in unaffected sorrow: “so young, and with everything to make life sweet; it is really too dreadful to think of! Does he know the doctor’s opinion?”
“He knows all, and is perfectly16 tranquil17.”
“What wonderful strength of mind!”
“The Lord is his strength,” replied the clergyman, and passed on.
Many an anxious inquiry18 after the young lord had Mr. Ewart to answer from different members of the household, before he reached the gardener’s cottage. He was desirous to know what effect his own deliverance and Ernest’s danger would have upon the mind of young Lawless.
[269]
He did not see Jack as he entered the cottage, and asked the gardener’s wife where he was.
“Oh, he’s there on the bed, sir, with his face to the wall. He’s never moved, nor spoken, nor tasted a morsel19, since he heard that the young lord lay a-dying. I can’t get him to answer a question; he lies there as still as a stone. I can’t say if he feels it or not, he has such a strange sullen20 way.”
Mr. Ewart seated himself close to the boy, who appeared to take no notice of his presence.
“You are not suffering, I hope, from your fall? Yours has been a wonderful preservation21; but for the generous courage of Lord Fontonore, you would have been now before the judgment-seat of God.”
Lawless gave no sign that he heard him.
“I have just quitted his sick-room,” continued the clergyman. “He is quite calm in the prospect22 of death, for his life has for long been one preparation for it. The last words that I heard him utter were of you;—he was recommending you to the kindness of his brother.”
Lawless convulsively clutched his pillow.
“He said,” added Mr. Ewart, “that if you were but saved for better things, his life would have been well bestowed.”
Jack suddenly half raised himself upon his bed, then dashed himself down again with frantic23 violence. “I can’t bear this,” he cried, in a choking voice. “I wish he
[270]
would hate me, abuse me, trample24 upon me; anything would be better than this!”
Yes, under all the deep crust of selfishness, malice25, and pride, lay a spring of feeling, in the depths of that unconverted heart. That spring had been reached, the deep buried waters gushed26 forth27, and the clergyman left the cottage with a faint but precious hope that his loved pupil had not suffered in vain.
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1
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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2
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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3
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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4
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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5
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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6
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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7
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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8
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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9
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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10
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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11
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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12
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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13
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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14
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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15
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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17
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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18
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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19
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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20
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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21
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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22
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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23
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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24
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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25
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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26
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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27
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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