Elsie's Widowhood Part 15

"'Tis not the whole of life to live, Nor all of death to die."

--_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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 a.n.a.lyze 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 a.s.surances from the word, of G.o.d's willingness to save.

At last, "I'm going, going!" he gasped. "Oh G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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."