Part 6 (2/2)

”Quite true,” returned Miss Millet; ”and G.o.d _has_ work for all these men to do, though many of them refuse to do it. But I feel sure that that won't be your case, Jeff. He finds work just suited to our capacities--at the time we need it, too, if we are only willing. Why, in my own very case, has He not sent you to me to be nursed, just as I had finished organising the new night-cla.s.ses for the usher-boys; and I was puzzled--absolutely puzzled--as to what I should do next and here you step in, requiring my a.s.sistance, and giving me full employment.”

”That's it--that's it,” returned Jeff hastily. ”I am without means, and a burden on you and Captain Millet. Oh! it is hard--very hard!”

”Yes, indeed, it _is_ hard to bear. Of course that is what you mean, for, as G.o.d has done it we cannot suppose anything that He does is really hard. If your illness had been the result of dissipation, now, or through your own fault, you could not have said exactly it was G.o.d's doing; but when it was the result of n.o.ble self-sacrifice--”

”Come, come, auntie; don't make me more vain than I am. I'm bad enough as it is, and--and--I'm _very_ weary.”

The poor youth's head fell back on the pillow, and he sighed deeply as his nurse brought him some strengthening food. He needed it much, for he was reduced to a mere shadow of his former self.

His fine eyes had become quite awful in their size and solemnity. His once ruddy cheeks were hollow. His well-formed nose had become pinched, and his garments hung on, rather than clothed, a huge skeleton.

During all Jeff's illness Captain Millet was unremitting in his attentions, insomuch that a certain careworn expression began to take up its settled abode on his countenance. But this was not altogether owing to sympathy with his friend, it was partly the consequence of his financial affairs.

Having lost his situation, as he had expected, he found it difficult to procure another, and was under the necessity of living on the small capital which he had acc.u.mulated in the course of laborious years. Had his own subsistence been all his care, he would have had little trouble; but Rose had to be supported and educated, his sister had to be a.s.sisted, his charities had to be kept up, and now Jeff Benson had to be maintained, and his doctor paid. The worst of it all was, that he could not talk on the subject to any of the three, which, to a sympathetic soul, was uncommonly hard--but unavoidable.

”Yes, quite unavoidable,” he muttered to himself one evening, when alone in his lodging. ”They think I'm a rich old fellow, but I daren't say a word. If I did, Jeff would refuse to eat another bite, an' that would kill him. If I told Rosebud, it could do no good, and would only make her miserable. If I told Molly, I--I really don't know what she'd do.

She'd founder, I think. No, I must go on sailin' under false colours.

It's a comfort, anyhow, to know that the funds will last some little time yet, even at the present rate of expenditure; but it's perplexin'-- very.”

He shook his head, wrinkled his brows, and then, rising, took a well-worn pocket-Bible from a shelf, and sought consolation therein.

Some time after that Captain Millet was seated in the same room, about the same hour, meditating on the same subject, with a few additional wrinkles on his brow, when he received a letter.

”From Hong Kong,” he muttered, opening it, and putting on his gla.s.ses.

The changes in his expressive face as he read were striking, and might have been instructive. Sadness first--then surprise--then blazing astonishment--then a pursing of the mouth and a prolonged whistle, followed by an expressive slap on the thigh. Then, crumpling the letter into his pocket he put on his glazed hat, sallied forth, and took the way to his sister's cottage.

At that cottage, about the same time, a great change had taken place in Jeff Benson--spiritually, not physically, though even in the latter respect he was at all events not worse than usual. Having gone from bad to worse in his rebellion, he had at last reached that lowest depth wherein he not only despaired of the doctor's power to cure him, and his own power of const.i.tution, but began silently, and in his own mind, to charge his Maker with having made a complete failure in his creation.

”Life is a muddle, auntie, altogether!” he exclaimed when he reached this point. It was the lowest ebb--hopeless despair alike of himself and his G.o.d.

”A muddle, Jeff?” said the little woman, raising her eyebrows slightly.

”How can that be possible in the work of a Perfect Creator, and a Perfect Saviour who redeems from all evil--your supposed `muddle'

included?”

Our young coastguardsman was silent. It was probably the great turning-point when the Holy Spirit opened his eyes to see Jesus, and all things in relation to Him. For a long time he did not speak. The lips of his nurse were also silent, but her heart was not so. At last Jeff spoke--

”It _must_ be so. Perfection is bound to work out perfection. This apparent evil _must_ be for good. `He doeth all things well.' Surely I have read that somewhere!”

In a low clear voice his nurse said--

”`He doeth all things well,'

We say it now with tears; But we shall sing it with those we love Through bright eternal years.”

”I think the light is dawning, auntie.”

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