Chapter XIV: A Dream

IT was late when Dr. Brown came in, and long before that, Heston had suggested that he should go upstairs to write to his father, and then go to bed.

"You look tired, cousin Ruth," he had added solicitously. "I am sure this has been a hard day to you, so I will leave you in peace."

"You will come down and have some tea with me presently? Perhaps my father will be in."

"Thank you—but I think I will let you be quiet?"

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Ruth. "Come back at nine, and we will be cosy."

So when the clock in the hall chimed nine, Heston came bounding down the stairs.

"I have finished my letter, and now I shall not stay long! You and uncle have had no time together."

Ruth smiled. She had wanted a talk with her father very much, but she thought it was very thoughtful of Heston to think of it.

He soon wished her good-night, and she was left alone.

Morris came up then, but after a few words, she said Ruth looked tired, and she also went.

Ruth was tired. She sat motionless in her chair with her hands in her lap. And then her mind went back to her father and to his changed attitude towards her. What had caused the sudden difference? And had he meant by what he had said that he should explain it to her?

Her heart bounded at the thought that God had heard her prayer, and that the sorrowful estrangement seemed to have passed away.

She sat so for a long time, her mind reverting to Judith, and Mala, and Norman, and then coming back with a sense of relief to the thought of Heston's friendliness. Truly, to-night she had many things to be thankful for, as Morris had whispered with her good-night kiss.

At length her father's latchkey was heard, and his step in the hall, weary enough she knew.

She sprang up and welcomed him, and he came in to the pleasant, bright room where his delayed meal was spread ready for him.

He was very silent, but not a silence that grieved her. She was sure it was only that he had much to think of.

Presently he began to talk about Norman, but she was sure he had something else to say, and that this was only while the maid went in and out in waiting on him.

"I have been to see Dr. Arundel," he said, "and he looks hopefully upon Norman's recovery, as far as he can judge from my account. He wants to thoroughly go into his case with me as soon as the child has got used to us. It is of no use to be in a hurry in these nervous cases."

"Oh, no; and he is so shy yet."

"Just so."

The cloth had been removed by this time, and they were now alone. The clock had just struck eleven, and they felt as if the house were to themselves.

"Oh, Ruth, my dear, I am glad to have you to come back to!" said her father fondly. "Come and sit by me; I want to tell you something."

How gladly she ran to him, and sat down on her low chair by his side. How naturally her head sought its old place on his shoulder, and how inexpressibly comforting it was to feel his arm put round her once more.

There was a long silence. Ruth knew he had something to say, so she waited patiently, and at length he spoke.

"I have had a very strange experience to-day, Ruth, and I do not know that I can properly tell you about it. But I must try—"

"About one of your patients, father?"

"Yes; about that man who has been ill so long out in the village yonder—up by the farmhouse—you know—"

"Oh, yes—Smith—I know!"

"Well, yes. He has been ill for three months, and he has fretted dreadfully about what is to become of his wife and children—but that is by the way, it has nothing to do with to-day. Well, the district nurse has been caring for him very nicely, and lending him good books and talking to him; but it all seemed of very little use, as he was just the same, and nothing seemed to comfort him at all.

"This morning, knowing that he had been suffering all yesterday, I drove round there as early as I could.

"His wife met me at the door, and she said at once, 'Oh, doctor, he's better; he's had such a wonderful dream!'

"'I am glad if he is better,' I said, entering.

"'The nurse is up there, and he's telling her about it.'

"So I went up, and, to my amazement, the man's face was altered, and his whole bearing different.

"'Doctor,' he said, holding out his hand, 'I'm telling nurse my wonderful dream. May I tell you?'

"You know, Ruth, as a rule I am too busy to listen to dreams, but something impelled me to stay and hear what had made all the difference to poor Smith.

"'Tell on, my friend,' I said, and sat down behind the nurse, so that he continued to address himself to her.

"'Listen,' he said, 'nurse, do you remember saying to me yesterday, "Prepare to meet thy God"?'

"So the nurse said, 'I remember very well—'

"'After you were gone, I couldn't get those words out of my head. "Prepare to meet thy God!" I knew I was not prepared, and I did not know how to prepare! All was dark and gloomy, and yet over and over in my heart rang those words, "Prepare to meet thy God!"

"'While I was thinking ever so sorrowfully about them, I seemed to fall asleep, and yet what I saw was as clear as if it were happening before my eyes.

"'I saw the cross of our Saviour set up right in front of me! And on the cross I could see our Saviour hanging. Think of it! To see our Saviour nailed to the cross in front of me!

"'And close to the cross, between me and it, there was a great, deep hole—a dark pit—and I found myself moving nearer and nearer to that deep pit.

"'But though I could not but see that pit, and knew that I should fall into it because I was not prepared to meet God, yet I could not but look on our Saviour's face. For as He hung there, tears rolled down it, and I did not like to see Him cry!

"'So I said to someone standing by me, "Why does our Saviour cry?"

"'And the one who stood by answered, "Because you will fall into that dreadful pit. He is dying to save you, and you will not come to Him to be saved!"

"'And I said, "Oh, dear Saviour, I do not want to make you cry, I 'will' come and be saved! You shall not die in vain for me!"

"'And then when I looked for the pit, it had gone all away; it was filled quite up! And then I began to wake up from my dream, and I found my wife was shaking me by the arm, and she said, "Smith, Smith, you are singing in your sleep!"

"'And I said, "What was I singing?"

"'And she said, "The hymn that was in that book nurse lent you—

"'"Wash me in the Blood of the Lamb,
And I shall be whiter than snow!"'"

"'And so, nurse, I woke up! But instead of saying over and over to myself "Prepare to meet thy God," I'm saying all the time—

"'"Wash me in the Blood of the Lamb,
And I shall be whiter than snow!"

"'And nurse,' he added, 'I'm not going to fret about my wife and my children any more, nor about the rent either, for my Saviour's going to see to all that for me!'"

• • • • •

Ruth hid her face in her father's breast. To her had come in this story a new revelation of her own sinfulness and of her Saviour's love. Hitherto Mary Arundel's words had helped her to a living contact with Christ, but her knowledge had been small, both of Him and of herself. Now she realised how little she had loved Him, who had borne so much that she might be saved!

But her father was speaking, while he pressed her tenderly to his heart.

"Ruth, my darling, I want you to forgive your father all his hard thoughts and unkind ways for the last month! I never saw it in its true light till I stood, as it were, by that cross this morning, and the moment I saw my own sinfulness, then I found I could forgive those words of yours that had cut me to the heart—

"Oh, father, father!" sobbed Ruth.

"Forgive my mentioning them, my dear! Only this once, and then never again. We were both in fault; I far more than you. Will you forgive me?"

Ruth raised her lips and kissed him. "I never ought to have said it. Oh, father, do not speak as if I had to forgive you—it was all my fault—"

She could not go on, and nothing but speechless caresses of tenderness sealed the pardon on both sides.

"Now, my dear," he said at last, "we will go hand in hand towards your mother's home, as she begged us. I've been looking up a text she wrote with trembling hand in her Bible for me—

"'Thou hast cast all my sins behind Thy back.'

"He's done that for me and for you, I know, and now life is a different thing for us henceforth."