Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/A fatal gift
A FATAL GIFT.[1]
There are many wishes which we habitually conceive and express, without considering what the result would be were it possible to realise them, and what enormous consequences their realisation would entail. For instance, we are apt to exclaim, when perplexed by the conduct of others, “I’d give anything to know So-and-So’s thoughts!” A facility of this kind seems, at the first blush, to promise an easy solution of our difficulties. The effect of realising this wish will, however, be illustrated in the following narrative.
I was sitting up late one Saturday night finishing my sermon for the following Sunday; and the completion of which, as was very frequently the case with my sermons, had been delayed till the last moment, owing to the pressure of other duties. The subject, which I had afterwards strange reasons for remembering, was Faith.
I had been endeavouring to point out that what men find so difficult in a religious sense, really forms the foundation of secular life. Take, for instances, our investments of money, our whole system of commercial credit, nay, higher than that, our dearest domestic relations, our best social affections. “Why, without Faith,” I had written, “the world would come to a dead-lock; there would be an end of concerted action; men would be perfectly isolated. Faith was the cohesive principle which bound together the human atoms.” I little thought that that very night would afford me a terrible illustration of what I had written in a spirit of speculative contemplativeness.
Just as I had finished my discourse, I heard a low, single rap at the street-door. The servant had gone to bed, so I undid the bolts, and looked out; and eventually looking down, I discovered a little scared girl not more than seven years old standing in the doorway.
“Please sir, Mr. C is very ill, and would like to see you.”
“Mr. C!” The name was not familiar to me; but, reflecting for a moment, I recollected meeting a gentleman of that name some years back.
“What’s the direction?” I asked.
“, Adelphi Chambers,” said the child.
“I’ll be there directly,” I replied (with a sigh, I confess), for the rain was coming down heavily, and I had had a hard day’s parochial duty.
I pulled on my boots accordingly, and, with coat and umbrella, sallied forth. I was admitted into the house by a decent looking woman, who I presumed was the keeper of the chambers. She led me up-stairs—cheerless chamber-stairs; and I shuddered as she went before me with the feeble light.
“It is well for me to be here,” I thought, “if I can in anywise comfort a poor creature dying without the support of home care, and affection.”
I stopped the woman at the chamber-landing, and made her communicate to me some particulars of the case. The malady, it appeared, had quite puzzled the doctors; the woman herself thought Mr. C was troubled by something on his mind.
“He has lived here, sir,” said she, “for about six months: a nice quiet gentleman, and no trouble; but from the first there was something strange in his manner. He always seemed to want to be to hisself; me or my husband being in the room seemed to irritate him; and he never liked to be waited upon by anybody but our little girl. Since his illness he has had a screen drawn close round his bed, and he don’t like anybody to see him: not even the doctor.”
As I entered the room, where a shaded candle was dimly burning, in one corner I perceived a small camp-bed, almost concealed by a curtained screen. The woman mentioned my name, and withdrew. Then a voice, feeble but perfectly articulate, addressed me from behind the curtain.
“I am deeply your debtor for coming to see me at such a time.” I expressed my hope that I might be of comfort to him. “Will you be good enough,” he continued, “to take a seat near my bed, without disturbing the curtains; the request is strange, but I will explain it by-and-by.”
I did as he desired.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you have not forgotten my name: we met casually some years ago. I have not forgotten you! Your manner and appearance made a very deep impression on me; and when I chanced to hear that you were living in this district, I could not resist sending for you, in a sort of vain hope that you might afford me some alleviation.”
I signified to him that my mission was rather to deal with spiritual affliction.
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- ↑ It ought to be mentioned, in justice to both Author and Editor, that this story was in type some two or three weeks before the appearance of the July number of “Blackwood,” which contains a story on the same theme.