Chapter XVII: The Gate of Heaven

FATIGUED by her long journey, Emily slept soundly until morning. She was awakened by seeing her mother bending over her with a smile.

"Come, my dear, your father is awake, and has inquired for you."

"Is he better then?"

"Dr. Rand says he is no worse."

In a few minutes, Emily passed out of her chamber, saw Dr. Rand lying asleep on a lounge in the little sitting room over the front door: and then noiselessly glided to her father's side.

Putting a violent restraint on her feelings, she bent over him, and kissed repeatedly his forehead, then seizing the hand he feebly held out to her, she knelt by the bed holding it to her lips.

"Welcome—home,—dear," he murmured faintly. "Remember, whether—I live—or die, that I love you tenderly."

Mrs. Washburn came forward to the bed. "That will do," she said. "You may look at each other, but no more talking at present. Here comes Marion with your beef tea, papa. Emily shall see me feed you, because she'll be wanting to take her turn."

A smile of ineffable sweetness shone on his face.

She spread a napkin under his chin, and tenderly as a mother would a babe, gave him half a dozen spoonfuls.

He then motioned to Emily, and whispered the words, "Sing, Rock of ages."

Her voice at first unsteady, rose gradually, and at length filled the room, the patient lying with his eyes shut, with an expression of holy rapture on every feature.

Dr. Rand afterwards told Marion that his sleep was disturbed by an angel's song, which thrilled his whole soul.

When she had finished, his lips moved, and bending nearer, Emily heard him repeating the words,—

"Simply to thy cross I cling."

Then he lay so quiet that Mrs. Washburn left the chamber to give some necessary directions below.

This was the Sabbath, and at nine o'clock, the bells of different churches rang for Sunday School. The sound roused the sick man, who spoke aloud with considerable strength, repeating the lines—

"Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord, we love,
But there's a nobler rest above."

Then breaking out with a strain of rapture, he exclaimed in the words of the Psalmist,—

"'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? . . . When thou saidst, Seek ye my face; my heart said unto Thee, Thy face, Lord, will I seek . . . I had fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.'"

At ten o'clock, Dr. Summer came and found the stairs and upper hall filled with members of the church, to whom the sick man had formerly ministered. Dr. Rand would not allow them to go into the chamber, on account of his patient's difficult breathing, but they wept as they heard his voice giving testimony to the reality and power of the religion of Jesus in a dying hour.

This continued through the day, the patient being propped up with pillows, occasionally sinking off into a doze. Toward night, the fever raged to an alarming degree. Dr. Rand who had been absent a few hours, said that the crisis was approaching, and that he should not leave his patient. Anodynes in large quantities were given, but for some time appeared to have little effect. Once when they thought him asleep, he opened his eyes, and asked,—

"How long have I to live?"

"Why?" inquired the doctor, keeping his fingers on the wiry pulse.

"Before I die, I want to bear my testimony for Jesus."

"God willing, we shall keep you for twenty-four hours."

He seemed perfectly satisfied.

But Marion who stood by, suddenly left the room with a cry of agony.

For an hour or two, his distress was terrible. Every breath was a groan, and yet in the midst of his agony, he looked up at his wife, and gasped the words,—

"All—is—peace. My Saviour—is—leading—me—gently down—to—the—swelling flood—" then after a moment added,—"Read."

She instantly turned to the twenty-third psalm, and read it in a clear voice. When she came to the words, "'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.'"

"Yes, yes," he repeated, "they comfort me."

Before ten o'clock the next morning, a carriage stopped at the gate, and the Bishop alighted. He was accompanied by Mr. Temple.

Emily took her mother's place by the bedside, while she went below.

The good Bishop, with deep sympathy and solicitude, inquired concerning the sick man, and Mrs. Washburn, without a tear, gave him an account of her husband's illness. She described his state of rapture, his exalted views of God's glory, and the richness of his love to fallen man, in sending Jesus Christ as a propitiation for their sins.

The Bishop, with feeling, remarked, "It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to the house of feasting. You have indeed had a glorious privilege to witness such triumph."

He was interrupted by a strain of music from the chamber above. It was a strain of rapture.

"Salvation, oh, the joyful sound,
'Tis music in our ears,
A sovereign balm for every wound,
A cordial for our fears."

Not a word was spoken until the song was finished, and then the lady explained,—

"It is my daughters, singing to their father. He often requests them to sing, and names the words. I will tell him you are here."

She returned almost instantly, with a request that they would follow her to the chamber.

The Rector was raised nearly to a sitting position. His breathing was so difficult that every respiration could be distinctly observed through the counterpane which covered him, but his face was more than serene. It was stamped with holy joy.

"Welcome friends," he said, as they approached the bed, and grasped his hot, dry hand. "I'm almost through. The Lord is very gracious to me."

After words of sympathy and affection from the Bishop, he asked,—

"Have you no regret in leaving the world just at this juncture?"

"The Lord God is my Lord. He will vindicate my cause." Then added with an expression of fervor,—

"'They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion that cannot be
removed.'

"'The Lord is on my side; I will not fear: what can man do unto me?'"

"Happy indeed are those who can rest their burden on the Lord," murmured the Bishop, his eyes filling with tears.

"There have been times of late," said the sick man, speaking slowly and with great effort, "when I have had to fortify my mind with His promises.—

"'Though I walk in the midst of trouble, Thou wilt revive me: Thou shalt stretch forth Thine hand against the wrath of Thine enemies, and Thy right hand shall save me.'"

Mr. Temple rose from his chair and left the room, but almost immediately returned, his countenance expressive of deep emotion.

"Mr. Washburn," he said, grasping the hand of the sick man, "I have wronged you in thought and in word. Can you forgive me?"

A bright smile illumined the sick man's face, as he replied,—

"Truly and fully I forgive you. I trust we shall spend a blessed eternity together in sounding the praises of our common Master."

"Thank you." And kneeling by the bedside, he touched his lips to the Rector's hand.

Emily, at this moment, went to the bed to give her father his quinine, and he made her understand that he wanted the Bishop to pray.

"Thank you," he said, when the prayer was ended. "It has done me good—I feel better," he said slowly, and indeed he did speak with less effort.

The visitors rose at once to leave, the Bishop saying,—

"It has been good to be here. It is indeed like the gate of Heaven."

They went down stairs, but seemed reluctant to leave the house without seeing one of the physicians.

The sick man, after taking part of a cup of broth, sank into a quiet sleep.

"What is this? I cannot account for this change," exclaimed Dr. Rand, after a short examination of his patient an hour or two later.

"Is it a favorable change?"

"Certainly. Every symptom is improved."

"It may be that the Lord has heard the prayer of a good man," said the patient, with a smile which was not of earth.

"Our Bishop has been here," explained Marion. "Papa at once said he felt better."

And indeed, wonderful to relate, from this time the sharp distress in the chest abated, the breathing became more natural. Soon the effects of the tonics and nourishing broths became apparent in the increasing strength of the sick man, until, on the morning of the second day after the crisis, he seemed to realize his own improvement.

His wife was wiping his face with a damp cloth, when he looked up at her, and asked with deep solemnity,—

"Mary, am I coming back to the world?"

"We hope so. Do you regret it?"

He paused a moment before replying. "I was near enough," he said, "to hear the harpers with their harps, and their song ever was,—

"'Worthy is the lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and
wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing.'

"Still," he added, after a long pause, "life is sweet. I would like to do something for my Master, to show Him my gratitude."

On the third day after this, Drs. Sumner and Rand met in the sick chamber for the last time. After giving his patient some general advice, Dr. Sumner said,—

"Mr. Washburn, under God, you owe your life to this young man. His care and skill have been blessed to your recovery. As he says he shall not cease his visits at present, there will be no need of my coming except occasionally as a friend."

The Rector expressed his thanks to both of them, in which his wife most fervently joined. Marion, who had been waiting on her father, rose and left the room. It was some time before she heard the firm step she had learned to know so well, and going out into the hall to meet him she began,—

"Dr. Rand, how can I thank you?" Then overcome by her emotion, she covered her face and wept.

"Miss Marion," he said, gently, "you owe me no gratitude; I have done as much for a hundred patients in the hospital who never thought of thanks. It has been a great privilege to be here. Many times while watching over him and thinking a few hours must be the end, I have prayed as I never prayed before,—

"'Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like
his.'

"Yes," he added, tenderly taking her hand from her face, "on many accounts which I cannot explain to you now, I consider these visits the most fortunate of my whole practice."

In a few weeks, Mr. Washburn was able to leave his room and go below to his meals. He now gained strength rapidly, and talked as though he should soon be able to preach. His wife often wondered whether he would again propose a trial, but as yet she had said nothing to him on the subject.

Emily had, weeks before, received her trunk from U—. The Christmas holidays were so near that she resolved not to return till New Year's, and perhaps not till Easter. She had received most affectionate letters from Judge and Mrs. Wilson, also from her friends at the school, and from Cecilia, in Washington. The latter said she was getting tired of entertaining visitors for her brother, and wished he would marry so that she could be with her parents who were not well. Emily was confident, however, from the tone of her friend's letter, that she had not an idea that he had asked any one to be his wife. Indeed, whenever Emily's thoughts recurred to that strange interview, it seemed like the wildest dream.