Part 2 (1/2)
”I know the meaning of that dream,” said James Courtenay to his nurse.
”I do not want any one to explain it to me; I can tell all about it. The meaning is, that I must become a changed boy, or I shall never go to heaven when I die; and all the good things which I have here are not to be compared with those which are to be had there. What Jacob said was, that all these things are fading, and I must seek for what is better than anything here.
”Aggie,” said James Courtenay, ”you often think I am asleep when I am not; and you think I scarcely have my mind about me yet, when I lie so long quite still, looking away into the blue sky: but I am thinking; I am always thinking, and very often I am praying--asking forgiveness for the past, and hoping that I shall be changed for the future.”
”But we can't do much by hoping,” said Aggie, ”and we can't do anything by ourselves.”
”I mean to do more than _hope_,” said James Courtenay; ”I mean to _try_.”
”And you mean, I trust, to ask G.o.d's Spirit to help you?” said Aggie.
”Yes, every day,” said James. ”He helped Jacob, and he'll help me; and I hope to be yet where Jacob is now.”
”Ay, he helps the poor,” said Aggie, ”and he'll help the rich. Jacob had his trials, and you'll have yours; and perhaps yours are the hardest, so far as going to heaven is concerned; for the rich have a temptation in every acre of land and in every guinea they have. Our Lord says that ''tis hard for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven.'”
For many days James Courtenay thus pondered and prayed, with Aggie as his chief companion and instructor, and at length he was able to leave his room. But he was a different James Courtenay from the one who had entered that room some months before. The young squire was still pale and thin; but this was not the chief change observable in him,--he was silent and thoughtful in his manner, and gentle and kind to every one around. The loud voice which once rang so imperiously and impatiently through the corridors was now heard no more; the hand was not lifted to strike, and often grat.i.tude was expressed for any attention that was shown. The servants looked at each other and wondered; they could scarcely hope that such a change would last; and when their young master returned to full health and strength, they quite expected the old state of things to return again. But they were mistaken. The change in James Courtenay was a real one; it was founded on something more substantial than the transient feelings of illness,--he was changed _in his heart_.
And very soon he learnt by experience the happiness which true religion brings with it. Instead of being served unwillingly by the servants around, every one was anxious to please him; and he almost wondered at times whether these could be the servants with whom he had lived all his life. They now, indeed, gave a service of love; and a service of love is as different from a service of mere duty as day is from night.
Wherever the young squire had most displayed his pa.s.sionate temper, there he made a point of going, for the sake of speaking kindly, and undoing so far as he could the evil he had already done. He kept ever in mind what he had heard from Jacob Dobbin in his dream,--that there was not only a Saviour by whom alone he could be saved from his sins, but also that there was a road on which it was necessary to walk; a road which ran through daily life; a road on which loving deeds were to be done, and loving words spoken;--the road of obedience to the mind of Christ. James Courtenay well knew that obedience could not save him; but he well knew also that obedience was required from such as were saved by pure grace.
Altered as James Courtenay undoubtedly was, and earnest as he felt to become different to what he had been in olden time, he could not shake off from his mind the sad memory of the past. His mind was continually brooding upon poor little Dobbin's death, and upon the share which he had in it. For now he knew all the truth. He had seen old Leonard, and sat with him for many hours; and at his earnest request the old man had told him all the truth. ”Keep nothing back from me,” said the young squire, as he sat by old Leonard's humble fire-place, with his face covered with his hands; and over and over again had the old man to repeat the same story, and to call to mind every word that his departed son had said.
”What shall I do, Leonard, to show my sorrow?” asked James Courtenay one day. ”Will you go and live in a new house, if I get papa to build one for you?”
”Thank you, young squire,” said Leonard; ”it was here that Jacob was born and died, and this will do for me well enough as long as I'm here.
And it don't distress me much, Master James, about its being a poor kind of a place, for I'm only here for a while, and I've a better house up yonder.”
”Ay,” said James Courtenay, ”and Jacob is up yonder; but I fear, with all my striving, I shall never get there; and what good will all my fine property do me for ever so many years, if at the end of all I am shut out of the happy land?”
”Master James, you need not be shut out,” said old Dobbin; and he pulled down the worn Bible from the shelf; ”no, no; you need not be shut out.
Here is the verse that secured poor Jacob's inheritance, and here is the verse that by G.o.d's grace secures mine, and it may secure yours too;”
and the old man read out the pa.s.sage in 1 John i. 7, ”The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from _all_ sin.” ”All, all!” cried old Dobbin, his voice rising as he proceeded, for his heart was on fire; ”from murder, theft, lying, stealing,--everything, everything! Oh, what sinners are now in glory!--sinners no longer, but saints, washed in the precious blood! Oh, how many are there now on earth waiting to be taken away and be for ever with the Lord! I am bad, Master James; my heart is full of sin in itself; but the blood of Jesus cleanseth from all sin;--and whatever you have done may be all washed out; only cast yourself, body and soul, on Christ.”
”But how could I ever meet Jacob in heaven?” murmured the young squire from between his hands, in which he had buried his face; ”when I saw him, must not I feel I murdered him? ay, I was the cause of his misery and death, all for the sake of one fading, worthless flower!”
”Don't call it worthless, Master James; 'twas G.o.d's creature, and very beautiful while it lasted; and you can't call a thing worthless that gave a human being as much pleasure as that rose gave poor Jacob. But whatever it was, it will make no hindrance to Jacob meeting you in heaven,--ay, and welcoming you there, too. If you reach that happy place, I'll be bound Jacob will meet you with a smile, and will welcome you with a song into the happy land.”