Chapter XV: Fear of Pain

NEVER, perhaps, in the course of his life had Willy felt happier than when he had fairly got beyond the lodge-gate, and found himself upon the dusty high road.

There was pleasure in escaping from present annoyance; there was pleasure in the thought of a quiet interview with a friend; there was pleasure in bringing comfort to a sufferer who needed it; and there was pleasure—oh! what pleasure!—in the sense of victory over his fears. He had been helped; he had not disgraced his Christian profession; he had acted as his mother would have wished him to act; and the eye of his King was upon him. Even the feeling of his own weakness and proneness to fall was not sufficient to damp this joy; he had found that strength may be given to the weak—that it will be given to those who seek it from above.

Yes, it was with a light step and a bounding heart that Willy passed on his way. How bright and gay the sunshine looked! How green and fair the face of nature, the aspect of all things around disposed the heart of the young boy to hope and gladness!

"I shall doubtless soon hear from mamma," thought he, "and good tidings, I trust, of my poor dear aunt. I shall soon be locked in my mother's arms, and only doubly enjoy my home for this disagreeable beginning to my holidays. I dare say that it is well that I came here; if we had never difficulties to overcome—if we were always sailing in smooth water, where would be 'the trial to our faith?' But I shall be heartily glad to quit this place—heartily glad to see Ivy Lodge, and the face of my own dear mother!"

In a few minutes more Willy was briskly pulling the bell-handle which shone below the brass plate on the attorney's door. The summons was quick and loud, but it needed to be repeated before it was answered by an old, slip-shod woman, who, bent with age and infirmities, bore evidence on her wrinkled face that they had not tended to sweeten her temper.

"Is Master Percy at home?"

"What?" said the old woman, putting her hand to the back of her ear.

"Is Master Percy within?" repeated Willy, raising his voice.

In reply she opened the door a little wider, and pointed towards a room on the ground-floor at the back part of the house. Without waiting to be announced, Willy unclosed the door, and the next moment was shaking Percy's hand.

"I heard you ring. I thought that it was you. I am afraid that you have been kept waiting; but old Deborah is so deaf!"

"Oh I never mind," said Willy, glancing round the low apartment, which looked into a tanner's yard.

"A dull prospect, is it not?" said Percy, with a faint smile, reading the expression of his companion's eye. "I think that there is nothing but dull prospects for me," and he looked sadly down at his swathed foot.

"Oh no! You will get all right again," replied Willy cheerfully.

"Never, never! O Willy! You do not know what a terrible trial is hanging over me. The surgeon examined this poor foot yesterday. He said that the mischief was increasing; that there was but one remedy left—that I must submit to amputation."

"What is that?" inquired Willy anxiously.

"That my foot must be cut off! Is it not dreadful?" continued Percy, observing Willy's look of horror.

"Most dreadful! But is it really necessary is there no other way of curing you?"

"Alas! No other way. The surgeon is coming to-morrow. O Willy!" exclaimed Percy, with a sudden passionate burst of grief, "I am so wretched, so wretched—and you are the only one to whom I can speak freely—who will understand me, feel for me! My uncle I see little of, and he is so firm himself, he would only despise me if I poured out my heart to him and told him that I was afraid—but I am afraid, Willy, horribly afraid, my whole soul revolts from what is before me. I would give worlds to escape it!" And he buried his pale face in his hands.

Willy looked at him with silent sympathy, he could only feel for him, he knew not how to console. As he was trying to think of some words of comfort, Percy raised his head, and rapidly proceeded: "My uncle has just left me displeased. O Willy! He is not like your dear old uncle!—displeased because I had ventured to church to-day. He said that it was absurd and imprudent in a boy who had to undergo such an operation to-morrow to wear out his strength to-day—and perhaps he was right. But, Willy, I could not stay, I could not spend the long morning here alone in this gloomy room, with nothing to think of but the agony before me! I thought that if I were to find comfort anywhere it must be in church—and when I saw you and Tom it seemed a little gleam of joy. Oh! You cannot think how my heart sank when I fancied that you had forgotten me!"

"It seemed as if the sermon had been made expressly for you," observed Willy.

"I have been repeating the text over and over to myself, 'Wait on the Lord, be of good courage; wait, I say, on the Lord!' But, Willy, I seem to have no strength at all—pain and want of sleep have taken it all away. I cannot endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ. I am ashamed of my own weakness, but I cannot help it."

"You must remember your own story of Anne Ascue and her tortures. How firmly she bore them for the sake of the truth."

"Ah if I were to suffer for the sake of the truth."

"But did not mamma say that a martyr's spirit might be shown even under the common pains of life? God knows how terrified you feel. He sees all your trouble and your fear; and if He see also that you fight with your fear—that you call upon Him in the time of trouble, He will be pleased with your submission and faith; as the clergyman said this morning, 'We may glorify God in the fires.'"

Though Percy was several years older than Willy, it was a great relief to his weary spirit to lean upon the firmer mind of his companion. The difference of age was forgotten—he only saw the Christian comforter and the sympathising friend in the boy. So drawing Willy closer to his side, Percy replied in a sorrowful tone, without raising his eyes, "I fear that I do not glorify God in the fires, and that is one of my worst troubles. After all that I had heard from dear Uncle Presgrave, I seemed to feel some love of what is holy, some desire to serve my Lord. But oh! Willy, all good and happy thoughts wither in the air of this place! I have no one to help me on the way to heaven, no one who cares whether I am in it or not; I am very, very lonely on earth!" Tears rolled fast down his cheeks as he spoke.

"But the Lord loves, and is always watching over you."

"Yes," replied Percy very gravely, "but He must see in me so much to displease and offend Him. Remember, Willy, that He is a just and a terrible God!"

"All of us do wrong often; but, Percy, I should think that few offended so seldom as you do."

"Ah! You do not know," replied the boy, rocking himself backwards and forwards us if in pain. "I have plenty of time to look at my own heart, as I lie day after day, and night after night, with nothing to amuse or to distract my attention. All sorts of faults rise up to my view—you would not believe what I am!"

Willy only replied by a look of surprise. Percy continued to pour out the fulness of his burdened heart. "I hardly ever speak with a being but my uncle and Deborah; and my conscience is always reproaching me with my conduct to them. Towards my uncle I am ungrateful, positively ungrateful. I eat his bread, I sleep under his roof, and yet I cannot love him! O Willy! There must be something very wrong in this heart of mine!"

Willy knew not what answer to make.

"Then poor old Deborah, to whom I gave so much trouble, I am so impatient, so irritable with her! Her infirmities, instead of exciting my pity, only stir up my temper. When I want for something, and can by no means procure it, when I am feverish and thirsty, and ring and ring in vain, I quite lose the patience and gentleness that I should show, and perhaps say words which I so regret afterwards! The very sound of her slow heavy step above my head seems sometimes to put me into a fever!"

"That is your illness, dear Percy."

"Perhaps that may be some excuse," sighed the invalid. "But, Willy, I could tell you worse things than these."

"No, no," said his companion. "You must not excite yourself."

"But it eases me to speak out what weighs on my mind. Such wicked thoughts sometimes come into my heart, I feel impatient under the trial which the Almighty sends me. I rebel against suffering; I think it hard to lie tortured here while other boys are bounding over the meadows—the very sunshine streaming into my room raises repining feelings in my breast! Willy, is not this very sinful?"

"It may not be—it is not right," replied the boy, after a little hesitation.

"But what can I do?" cried Percy bitterly.

"Confess all your sins to the merciful Lord, ask Him to forgive you and to help your weakness. Do you not remember how the poor leper came to our Saviour and knelt down and prayed, 'Lord, if Thou wilt, Thou canst make me clean!' The Holy One is as truly now before you as He was before that poor man. He hears your prayer just as He heard that of the leper; and I am sure that He is as ready to grant it. The Lord Jesus will send no poor humble sinner disappointed away!"

"I cannot come to have my foot healed as the lame did then," said Percy sadly.

"No, but you can come to have your heart comforted and refreshed. You can be taught to think differently even of your pain. As I once heard Uncle Presgrave say, we should remember what is told us of the multitudes in white robes singing before God's glorious throne. They are those who came out of great tribulation; but their tribulation had ended in joy! David will not be sorry now that he was hunted and pursued, nor Job that he suffered so much sorrow and pain. Only try to think now as you will think in heaven, and you may thank the Lord even for the trials that He sends you! Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth. Oh! Think what it is to be loved by the Lord!"

Percy pressed Willy's hand within both his own; for a short time his heart was too full for speaking. "You will pray for me," he then murmured. "Pray that I may have courage to bear manfully whatever my Lord sees fit to inflict, without one impatient word or even a thought of repining. Pray that I may glorify God in the fires!"

Willy nodded assent, but his voice was choked.

"And Willy," pursued the poor youth, "I have another favour to ask, will you grant it?" and he looked earnestly into the face of his friend.

"I do not think that I could refuse you anything, Percy, at such a time as this."

"Will you be with me—to-morrow? The surgeon comes at two—"

"Oh no!" exclaimed Willy, half rising from his chair, and turning pale. "I am afraid—I don't think—I'm sure I could not bear—"

"If you could not bear to look upon it, what must it be to suffer it!"

"Poor Percy! I would do anything for you!"

"I shall perhaps have no one beside me but the hard rough surgeon and his attendant—I doubt whether Deborah would stay in the room. It is weak, and foolish, and selfish in me, I know; but it would be such a comfort to feel that a friend was near me!"

"I will be with you, Percy, whatever it may cost me—if I am not prevented by news from home. And now, is there anything else that I can do?"

"You can read me a chapter from the Bible—some chapter of comfort, dear Willy."

"I will read you of the sufferings of our blessed Lord. Oh what are our pains compared to His! And He can feel for us, Percy—what a comfort that is—for He so well knows what it is to suffer! His soul was sorrowful even unto death, yet He said, 'The cup that my Father hath given Me, shall I not drink it?'"