CHAPTER XXVI.

DR. JEPHSON’S PRESCRIPTION WORKS WONDERS.

“She is coming, my own, my sweet! Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthly bed: My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.”

_Tennyson._

Lucy Blyth was conducted with softened footfall and bated breath into the darkened chamber of the helpless invalid. She bent over him and heard the monotonous and untiring moan. She was more shocked than words can express to see how the fine stalwart youth had been laid low. His hair was close shaven, and his lacklustre eyes were sunk far into his head, while the cheekbones stood prominent as those of a skeleton, and the poor thin hands, that were clutching nervously at the coverlet, were bloodless as a stone. Lucy’s heart sank within her; the doctor, the nurse, and the squire softly turned away; sinking on a chair by the bedside she burst into a flood of silent tears. The precious relief to her pent-up soul was of infinite value to her. After her grief had spent its force, she rose, bathed her face and hands in cold water, and turning to the bed, took the poor listless fingers of her lover in her own.

“Philip! dear Philip!” she said, softly. The fingers closed convulsively; a sigh, which sounded like a gasp, broke from his lips. Fixing wondering eyes on her, he whispered, “Lucy! dear Lucy!” and this with a smile of rapturous content. What cared she in that moment who were lookers-on? What cared she that the stately squire was standing on tiptoe by the door, looking with the eyes of his soul for the crisis? What would she have cared had all Waverdale been standing by? Love, imperial love, asserted its unequalled rights. That ebbing life was flowing back beneath her royal power! That soul upon the wing was re-folding its pinions at her command! Stooping down she signed his reprieve upon his parched lips. If any of my readers object to this, they have my full permission to close these pages and go their way. I write not for those behind whose vest and beneath whose bodice there beats no human heart, but only the tick of a machine; but for those who hold that pure and true affection has rights which may not be invaded, and that in a case like this “Love is lord of all.”

In the course of another day or two, Dr. Jephson reported a stronger pulse and a brighter eye, and bade the grateful father hope for the best. The old man listened in silence, scarcely daring to believe.

“What is your opinion, Miss Blyth?” said the doctor.

“By God’s blessing he will recover,” Lucy said; and strange to say, Squire Fuller felt her verdict to be more assuring than the dictum of the experienced man of skill.

Nor did her judgment prove without warrant. Slowly, O how slowly! inch by inch, point by point, the fell destroyer Death was beaten back, and Philip Fuller obtained an even stronger lease of life. When he had so far recovered as to be able to converse, his father would sit for hours by his side, holding his boy’s hand in his own, and drinking in his words as though they were some pleasant music falling on his ear. True, the principal topic was one for which he had never any favour. On the contrary, he had scoffed at and hated it with all the energy of his intellectual pride. But from the lips of his boy, his handsome, manly, high-principled boy--given back to him from an open grave--he heard it with patience, nay, for the speaker’s sake, with unspeakable delight. There was no longer any cloud between these two, and it did not need that the father should unsay the rash words which had half-broken his son’s true and faithful heart. All had vanished like the morning dew, and sire and son were one again in heart and soul.

“Father,” said Philip, on one occasion, as he was propped up with pillows, while the squire occupied his seldom vacant seat by his side, “do you know that when I was so weak and ill that I could not speak to you, I knew all that was going on around me; and when I saw your sorrow and your love I did so want to tell you of the sweet peace that filled my soul. My Saviour was so inexpressibly precious to me that I longed to be with Him, and heaven was so near, that I saw its glories, the gleam of angels’ wings, and heard the sound of harpers harping with their harps. I really thought that I was dying, but death had no terrors for me. The one thing that seemed to pull me back to life was my great love to you and Lucy, and the yearning wish, dear father, to tell you of my Saviour’s boundless love. Father, I know that you have learned to look upon religion with doubt, and even with dislike. But now that I have come back--for I feel like one who has taken a long journey--come back from the very borders of the eternal world--come back, after sensibly breathing the very atmosphere of heaven--I tell you that of all the things in this vain shadowy world, Jesus and His love are the only realities; and dreadful as the struggle for life has been, I would gladly go through it all again to see you, my father, bending at the Saviour’s feet.”

Nor was this the only way in which the reserved and thoughtful squire was brought face to face with simple Christian experience. Lucy Blyth, who had gained all her usual self-command, was able to comply with Mr. Fuller’s genuine request, that she should in all things act without restraint. Now that the tide had turned, and Philip’s life no longer hung on such a slender thread, she was able to accept the housekeeper’s invitation to join her in her private room. Here, seated at the piano, she would sing the songs of Zion in such a fashion that the squire, all unaccustomed to such innovations on his solitude, would pass and re-pass, often for this only purpose, and listen to the strains so sweetly winning. It may well be doubted whether the modern idea of “singing the Gospel” was not, under existing circumstances, the most effective way of bringing him under the influences of those blessed truths which were the joy and comfort of his son.

On one occasion, when thus occupied, she sang a glorious hymn of Charles Wesley’s. Her unknown listener heard the words--

“I rest beneath the Almighty’s shade, My griefs expire, my troubles cease; Thou, Lord, on whom my soul is stayed, Will keep me still in perfect peace.”

He listened till the trustful strain died out in silence, and retired to his library. Opening an accustomed volume by a favourite writer, whose no-faith had chimed in with his own phase of unbelief, he read--“I look upon human life as being bounded by an impenetrable curtain, which defies the gaze of man to pierce its texture, the hand of man to lift its awful folds. Thousands of inquiring minds have brought their torches and sought to unravel the mystery in vain. A thousand voices of those without have loudly called to those within, and asked their questions as to the eternal ‘Where?’ But they have received no answer, only the hollow echo of their own question, as if they had shouted into an empty vault.”

He laid down the book, and sat in thoughtful silence. He thought of the clear, bright hope of the youth upstairs who had been half within the curtain. “I saw the glories of heaven, the gleam of angels’ wings, and heard the sound of harpers harping with their harps.” How widely differed this from that! The first was a sad, low wail of despair; the second was the waving of Hope’s golden wing. Rising to his feet, he opened the door to rejoin his son. Hush! He hears Lucy’s voice, sweetly singing--

“While I draw this fleeting breath, When my eyes shall close in death, When I rise to worlds unknown, And behold Thee on Thy throne, Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!”

He listened till the verse was concluded, then turning to the stairs, he ascended to Philip’s room, repeating to himself,--

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me! Let me hide myself in Thee!”

Stepping softly to the bedside, he found his boy sleeping sweetly, with a smile upon his face that told of perfect peace. His hand was laid upon the open Bible. Led by an impulse of curiosity, as we purblind mortals say, he stooped down and read, where Philip’s fingers lay, “There be many that say, Who will show us any good? Lord, lift thou up the light of thy countenance upon us.... I will both lay me down in peace and sleep, for thou only, O Lord, makest me to dwell in safety.”

“In peace,” said the squire, and looking at the restful countenance of his son, he read a commentary there that he could neither misunderstand nor dispute. He sat and pondered as the minutes passed, the subject of thoughts and emotions new and strange. Nor could he break the spell until Philip, waking refreshed and happy, turned to him with a gleam of glad surprise, and said,--

“My father!”

“What is it, my son?”

“Nay, nothing; nothing but the joy of having you by my side.”

The glad old man, melted as his stedfast nature had never been, longed to do something in his great love.

“Can I do anything for you?” said he.

“Yes. Read to me a little,” pointing to his Bible. “Read the third chapter in St. John’s Gospel.”

In this way the sceptical parent was brought into potent contact with the Great Teacher’s answer to another doubter, who asked, “How can these things be?” So the days passed by, the overhanging cloud caused by the dark deed in Thurston Wood had not density enough to shadow them very greatly. Both father and son believed that God would bring forth Philip’s righteousness as the light, and His judgment as the noonday. Philip silently and continuously prayed that the Spirit would take of the things of God and show them to his father’s mind and heart. Who shall doubt the answer to those pleadings of filial love? God’s providence and grace are both pledged to the fulfilment of believing prayer. The citadel so long impregnable to the assaults of Gospel truth was trembling under the combined influences at work. Will it yield to these? If not, the Lord hath yet other arrows in His quiver. “He hath bent his bow and made it ready, and ordained his arrows at the heart of” those who resist him. But if those hearts lay down their weapons and submit to Him, though the arrow may be sped, it shall wound to heal, and “dividing asunder between the joints and the marrow,” the sword of the Spirit shall open a way for the life-giving balsam of His own precious blood!