Life in the Clearings Versus the Bush (27 page)

“You will like it better by and by; a new country always improves upon acquaintance.”

“Ah, never! Did I only consult my own feelings, I would be off by the next steam-boat for England; but then – my husband, my child, our scanty means. Yes! yes! I must submit, but I find it a hard task.”

“We have all our trials, Mrs. M—; and, to tell you the truth, I do not feel in the best spirits myself this afternoon. I came to ask you what I am certain you will consider a strange question.”

This was said in a tone so unusually serious, that I looked up from the cradle in surprise, which her solemn aspect, and pale, tearful face, did not tend to diminish. Before I could ask the cause of her dejection, she added quickly –

“Dare you read a chapter from the Bible to a dying man?”

“Dare I? Yes, certainly! Who is ill? Who is dying?”

“It’s a sad story,” she continued, wiping the tears from her kind eyes. “I will tell you, however, what I know of it, just to satisfy you as to the propriety of my request. There is a poor young man in this house who is very sick – dying, I believe, of consumption. He came here about three weeks ago, without food, without money, and in a dreadfully emaciated state. He took our good landlord, Mr. S—, on one side, and told him how he was situated, and begged that he would give him something to eat and a night’s lodging, promising that if ever he was restored to health, he would repay the debt in work. You know what a kind, humane man, Mr. S—is, although,”
she added, with a sly smile,
“he is a Yankee
, and so am I by right of parentage, though not of birth. Mr. S—saw at a glance that the suppliant was an object of real charity, and instantly complied with his request. Without asking further particulars, he gave him a good bed, sent him up a bowl of hot soup, and bade him not distress himself about the future, but try and get a good night’s rest. The next day, the young man was too ill to leave his chamber. Mr. S—sent for old Dr. Morton, who, after examining the lad, informed his employer that he was in the last stage of consumption, and had not many days to live, and it would be advisable for Mr. S—to have him removed to the hospital –(a pitiful shed erected for emigrants who may chance to arrive ill with the cholera). Mr. S—not only refused to send the young man away, but has nursed him with the greatest care, his wife and daughters taking it by turns to sit up nightly with the poor patient.”

My friend said nothing about her own attendance on the invalid, which, I afterwards learned from Mrs. S—, had been unremitting.

“And what account does the lad give of himself?” said I.

“All that we know about him is, that his name is Macbride,
^*
and that he is nephew to Mr. C—, of Peterboro’, an Irishman by birth, and a Catholic by religion. Some violent altercation took place between him and his uncle a short time ago, which induced Michael to leave his house, and look out for a situation for himself. Hearing that his parents had arrived in this country, and were on their way to Peterboro’, he came down as far as Cobourg in the hope of meeting them, when his steps were arrested by poverty and sickness on this threshold.

“By a singular coincidence, his mother came to the hotel yesterday evening to inquire the way to Peterboro’, and Mr. S—found out, from her conversation, that she was the mother of the poor lad, and he instantly conducted her to the bedside of her son. I was sitting with him when the interview between him and his mother took place, and I assure you that it was almost too much for my nerves – his joy and gratitude were so great at once more beholding his parent, while the grief and distraction of the poor woman, on seeing him in a dying state, was agonising; and she gave vent to her feelings in uttering the most hearty curses against the country, and the persons who by their unkindness had been the cause of his sickness. The young man seemed shocked at the unfeminine conduct of his mother, and begged me to excuse the rude manner in which she answered me; ‘for,’ says he, ‘she is ignorant and beside herself, and does not know what she is saying or doing.’

“Instead of expressing the least gratitude to Mr. S—for the attention bestowed on her son, by some strange perversion of intellect she seems to regard him and us as his especial enemies. Last night she ordered us from his room, and declared that her ‘precious
bhoy
was not going to die like a
hathen
, surrounded by a parcel of heretics;’ and she sent off a man on horseback for the priest and for his uncle – the very man from whose house he fled, and whom she accuses of being the cause of her son’s death. Michael anticipates the arrival of Mr. C—with feelings bordering on despair, and prays that God may end his sufferings before he reaches Cobourg.

“Last night Mrs. Macbride sat up with Michael herself, and would not allow us to do the least thing for him. This morning her fierce temper seems to have subsided, until her son awoke from a broken and feverish sleep, and declared that
he would not die a Roman Catholic, and earnestly requested Mr. S—to send for a Protestant clergyman. This gave rise to a violent scene between Mrs. Macbride and her son, which ended in Mr. S—sending for Mr. B—, the clergyman of our village, who, unfortunately, had left this morning for Toronto, and is not expected home for several days. Michael eagerly asked if there was any person present who would read to him from the Protestant Bible. This excited in the mother such a fit of passion, that none of us dared attempt the task. I then thought of you, that, as a perfect stranger, she might receive you in a less hostile manner. If you are not afraid to encounter the fierce old woman, do make the attempt for the sake of the dying creature, who languishes to hear the words of life. I will watch the baby while you are gone.”

“She is asleep, and needs no watching. I will go as you seem so anxious about it,” and I took my pocket Bible from the table. “But you must go with me, for I do not know my way in this strange house.”

“Carefully closing the door upon the sleeping child, I followed the light steps of Mrs. C—along the passage, until we reached the head of the main staircase, then, turning to the right, we entered the large public ballroom. In the first chamber of many that opened into this spacious apartment we found the object that we sought.

Stretched upon a low bed, with a feather fan in his hand, to keep off the flies that hovered in tormenting clusters round his head, lay the dying Michael Macbride.

The face of the young man was wasted by disease and mental anxiety; and if the features were not positively handsome, they were well and harmoniously defined, and a look of intelligence and sensibility pervaded his countenance, which greatly interested me in his behalf. His face was deathly pale,
as pale as marble, and his large sunken eyes shone with unnatural brilliancy, their long dark lashes adding an expression of intense melancholy to the patient endurance of suffering that marked his fine countenance. His nose was shrunk and drawn in about the nostrils, his feverish lips apart, in order to admit a free passage for the labouring breath, their bright red glow affording a painful contrast to the ghastly glitter of the brilliant white teeth within. The thick black curls that clustered round his high forehead were moist with perspiration, and the same cold unwholesome dew trickled in large drops down his hollow temples. It was impossible to mistake these signs of approaching dissolution – it was evident to all present that death was not far distant.

An indescribable awe crept over me. He looked so tranquil, so sublimed by suffering, that I felt my self unworthy to be his teacher.

“Michael,” I said, taking the long thin white hand that lay so listlessly on the coverlid, “I am sorry to see you so ill.”

He looked at me attentively for a few minutes. –“Do not say sorry, Ma’am; rather say glad. I am glad to get away from this bad world – young as I am – I am so weary of it.”

He sighed deeply, and tears filled his eyes.

“I heard that you wished some one to read to you.”

“Yes, the Bible!” he cried, trying to raise himself in the bed, while his eager eyes were turned to me with an earnest, imploring expression.

“I have it here. Are you able to read it for yourself?”

“I can read – but my eyes are so dim. The shadows of death float between me and the world; I can no longer see objects distinctly. But oh, Madam, if my soul were light, I should not heed this blindness. But all is dark here,” laying his hand on his breast, –“dark as the grave.”

I opened the sacred book, but my own tears for a moment obscured the page. While I was revolving in my own mind what would be the best to read to him, the book was rudely wrenched from my hand by a tall, gaunt woman, who just then entered the room.

“Och! what do you mane by disturbing him in his dying moments wid yer thrash? It is not the likes o’ you that shall throuble his sowl! The praste will come and administher consolation to him in his last exthremity.”

Michael shook his head, and turned his face sorrowfully to the wall.

“Oh, mother,” he murmured, “is that the way you treat the lady?”

“Lady, or no lady, and I mane no disrispict; it is not for the like o’ her to take this on hersel.’ If she will be rading, let her rade this,” and she tried to force a book of devotional prayers into my hand. Michael raised himself, and with an impatient gesture exclaimed –

“Not that – not that! It speaks no comfort to me. I will not listen to it. Mother, mother! do not stand between me and my God. I know that you love me – that what you do is done for the best; but the voice of conscience will be heard above your voice. I hunger and thirst to hear the word as it stands in the Bible, and I cannot die in peace unsatisfied. For the love of Christ, Ma’am, read a few words of comfort to a dying sinner!”

Here the mother again interposed.

“My good woman,” I said gently putting her back, “you hear your son’s earnest request. If you really love him, you will offer no opposition to his wishes. It is not a question of creeds that is here to be determined, as to which is the best – yours or mine. I trust that all the faithful followers of Christ, however named, hold the same faith, and will be saved by the same
means. I shall make no comment on what I read to your son. The Bible is its own interpreter. The Spirit of God, by whom it was dictated, will make it clear to his comprehension. Michael, shall I commence now? ”

“Yes,” he replied, “with the blessing of God!”

After putting up a short prayer I commenced reading, and continued to do so until night, taking care to select those portions of Scripture most applicable to his case. Never did human creature listen with more earnestness to the words of truth. Often he repeated whole texts after me, clasping his hands together in a sort of ecstasy, while tears streamed from his eyes. The old woman glared upon me from a far corner, and muttered over her beads, as if they were a spell to secure her against some diabolical art. When I could no longer see to read, Michael took my hand, and said with great earnestness –

“May God bless you, Madam! You have made me very happy. It is all clear to me now. In Christ alone I shall obtain mercy and forgiveness for my sins. It is his righteousness, and not any good works of my own, that will save me. Death no longer appears so dreadful to me. I can now die in peace.”

“You believe that God will pardon you, Michael, for Christ’s sake; but have you forgiven all your enemies?”

I said this in order to try his sincerity, for I had heard that he entertained hard thoughts against his uncle.

He covered his face with his thin, wasted hands, and did not answer for some minutes; at length he looked up with a calm smile upon his lips, and said –

“Yes, I have forgiven all – even
him!
–”

Oh, how much was contained in the stress laid so strongly and sadly upon that little word
Him!
How I longed to hear the story of his wrongs from his own lips! but he was too weak and exhausted for me to urge such a request.
Just then Dr. Morton came in, and after standing for some minutes at the bed-side, regarding his patient with fixed attention, he felt his pulse, spoke a few kind words, gave some trifling order to his mother and Mrs. C—, and left the room. Struck by the solemnity of his manner, I followed him into the outer apartment.

“Excuse the liberty I am taking Dr. Morton; but I feel deeply interested in your patient. Is he better or worse?”

“He is dying. I did not wish to disturb him in his last moments. I can be of no further use to him. Poor lad, it’s a pity! he is really a fine young fellow.”

I had judged from Michael’s appearance that he had not long to live, but I felt inexpressibly shocked to find his end so near. On returning to the sick room, Michael eagerly asked what the doctor thought of him?

I did not answer – I could not.

“I see,” he said, “that I must die. I will prepare myself for it. If I live until the morning, will you, Madam, come and read to me again?”

I promised him that I would – or during the night, if he wished it.

“I feel very sleepy,” he said. “I have not slept for many nights, but for a few minutes at a time. Thank God, I am entirely free from pain: it is very good of Him to grant me this respite.”

His mother and I adjusted his pillows, and in a few seconds he was slumbering as peacefully as a little child.

The feelings of the poor woman seemed softened towards me, and for the first time since I entered the room she shed tears. I asked the age of her son? She told me that he was two-and-twenty. She wrung my hand hard as I left the room, and thanked me for my kindness to her poor
bhoy
.

It was late that night when my husband returned from the country, and we sat for several hours talking over our affairs, and discussing the soil and situation of the various farms he had visited during the day. It was past twelve when we retired to rest, but my sleep was soon disturbed by some one coughing violently, and my thoughts instantly reverted to Michael Macbride, as the hoarse sepulchral sounds echoed through the large empty room beyond which he slept. The coughing continued for some minutes, and I was so much overcome by fatigue and the excitement of the evening that I fell asleep, and did not awake until six o’clock the following morning.