Title: The One Moss-Rose
Author: Power, P. B.
Language: English
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THE ONE MOSS-ROSE.

[Illustration: "STOP, STOP,--DON'T CUT IT!"]

[Illustration]



THE ONE MOSS-ROSE.


BY

REV. P. B. POWER, M.A.

[Illustration: Emblem]


          LONDON:
          T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
          EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
          1872.

[Illustration]



THE ONE MOSS-ROSE.


[Illustration: L]EONARD DOBBIN had a humble cottage upon Squire
Courtenay's estate; but although the cottage was humble, it was always
kept neat and clean, and was a pattern of everything that a poor man's
dwelling should be. The white-washed walls, the smoothly raked gravel
walk, and the sanded floor, were so many evidences that Leonard was a
careful and a thrifty man; and while some of his poorer neighbours
laughed, and asked where was the use of being so precise, they could
not help respecting Dobbin, nevertheless.

The great, and, indeed, almost the _only_ pleasure upon which the
labourer allowed himself to spend any time, was the little flower garden
in front of the house. The garden was Dobbin's pride; and the pride of
the garden was a moss-rose tree, which was the peculiar treasure of the
labourer's little crippled son, who watched it from the window, and
whenever he was well enough, crept out to water it, and pick off any
stray snail which had ventured to climb up its rich brown leaves. No
mother ever watched her little infant with more eager eyes than Jacob
Dobbin did his favourite rose; and no doubt he thought all the more of
it because he had so few pleasures in life. Jacob Dobbin had no fine
toys, he could not take any long walks, nor could he play at cricket,
or any such games, therefore his rose tree was all the more precious; in
fact, in his estimation there was nothing to compare with it in the
world.

There was a great difference between poor Jacob's lot and that of Squire
Courtenay's son. James Courtenay had plenty of toys; he had also a pony,
and a servant to attend him whenever he rode out; when the summer came,
he used often to go out sailing with the squire in his yacht; and there
was scarce anything on which he set his heart which he was not able to
get.

With all these pleasures, James Courtenay was not, however, so happy a
youth as poor Jacob Dobbin. Jacob, though crippled, was contented--his
few pleasures were thoroughly enjoyed, and "a contented mind is a
continual feast;" whereas James was spoiled by the abundance of good
things at his command; he was like the full man that loatheth the
honeycomb; and he often caused no little trouble to his friends, and,
indeed, to himself also, by the evil tempers he displayed.

Many a time did James Courtenay's old nurse, who was a God-fearing
woman, point out to him that the world was not made for him alone; that
there were many others to be considered as well as himself; and that
although God had given him many things, still he was not of a bit more
importance in His sight than others who had not so much. All this the
young squire would never have listened to from any one else; but old
Aggie had reared him, and whenever he was laid by with any illness, or
was in any particular trouble, she was the one to whom he always fled.
"God sometimes teaches people very bitter lessons," said old Aggie one
day, when James Courtenay had been speaking contemptuously to one of the
servants; "and take care, Master James, lest you soon have to learn
one."

Jacob Dobbin had been for some time worse than usual, his cough was more
severe, and his poor leg more painful, when his father and he held a
long conversation by the side of their scanty fire.

Leonard had made the tea in the old black pot with the broken spout, and
Jacob lay on his little settle, close up to the table.

"Father," said Jacob, "I saw the young squire ride by on his gray pony
to-day, and just then my leg gave me a sore pinch, and I thought, How
strange it is that there should be such a difference between folk; he's
almost always galloping about, and I'm almost always in bed."

"Poor folk," answered Jacob's father, "are not always so badly off as
they suppose; little things make them happy, and little things often
make great folk _un_happy; and let us remember, Jacob, that whatever may
be our lot in life, we all have an opportunity of pleasing God, and so
obtaining the great reward, which of his mercy, and for Christ's sake,
he will give to all those who please him by patient continuance in
well-doing. The squire cannot please God any more than you."

"Oh," said Jacob, "the squire can spend more money than I can; he can
give to the poor, and do no end of things that I cannot: all I can do is
to lie still on my bed, and at times keep myself from almost cursing and
swearing when the pain is very bad."

"Exactly so, my son," answered Leonard Dobbin; "but remember that
patience is of great price in the sight of God; and he is very often
glorified in the sufferings of his people."

"The way I should like to glorify God," said Jacob, "would be by going
about doing good, and letting people see me do it, so that I could
glorify him before them, and not in my dull little corner here."

"Ah, Jacob, my son," replied old Leonard Dobbin, "you may glorify God
more than you suppose up in your little dull corner--what should you
think of glorifying him before angels and evil spirits?"

"Ah, that would be glorious!" cried Jacob.

"Spirits, good and bad, are ever around us," said old Leonard, "and they
are watching us; and how much must God be glorified before them, when
they see his grace able to make a sufferer patient and gentle, and when
they know that he is bearing everything for Christ's sake. When a
Christian is injured, and avenges not himself; when he is evil spoken
of, and answers not again; when he is provoked, yet continues
long-suffering: then the spirits, good and bad, witness these things,
and they must glorify the grace of God."

That night Jacob Dobbin seemed to have quite a new light thrown upon his
life. "Perhaps," said he to himself, as he lay upon the little settle,
"I'm afflicted in order that I may glorify God. I suppose he is
glorified by his people bearing different kinds of pain; perhaps some
other boy is glorifying him with a crippled hand, while I am with my
poor crippled leg: but I should like to be able even to bear
persecution from man for Christ's sake, like the martyrs in father's old
book; as I have strength to bear such dreadful pain in my poor leg, I
daresay I might bear a great deal of suffering of other kinds."

       *       *       *       *       *

The spring with its showers passed away, and the beautiful summer came,
and Jacob Dobbin was able to sit at his cottage door, breathing in the
pure country air, and admiring what was to him the loveliest object in
nature--namely, one rich, swelling bud upon his moss-rose tree. There
was but one bud this year upon the tree,--the frosts and keen spring
winds had nipped all the rest; and this one was now bursting into
beauty; and it was doubly dear to Jacob, because it was left alone.
Jacob passed much of his time at the cottage door, dividing his
admiration between the one moss-rose and the beautiful white fleecy
clouds, which used to sail in majestic grandeur over his head; and often
he used to be day-dreaming for hours, about the white robes of all who
suffered for their Lord.

While thus engaged one day, the young squire came running along, and his
eye fell upon Jacob's rose. "Hallo," cried he with delight--"a
moss-rose! Ha, ha!--the gardener said we had not even one blown in our
garden; but here's a rare beauty!" and in a moment James Courtenay had
bounded over the little garden gate, and stood beside the rose bush. In
another instant his knife was out of his pocket, and his hand was
approaching the tree.

"Stop, stop!" cried Jacob Dobbin; "pray don't cut it,--'tis our only
rose; I've watched it I don't know how long; and 'tisn't quite come out
yet,"--and Jacob made an effort to get from his seat to the tree; but
before the poor little cripple could well rise from his seat, the young
squire's knife was through the stem, and with a loud laugh he jumped
over the little garden fence, and was soon lost to sight.

The excitement of this scene had a lamentable effect upon poor Jacob
Dobbin. When he found his one moss-rose gone, he burst into a violent
fit of sobbing, and soon a quantity of blood began to pour from his
mouth--he had broken a blood-vessel; and a neighbour, passing that way a
little time after, found him lying senseless upon the ground. The
neighbouring doctor was sent for, and he gave it as his opinion that
Jacob could never get over this attack. "Had it been an ordinary case,"
said the doctor, "I should not have apprehended a fatal result; but
under present circumstances I fear the very worst; poor Jacob has not
strength to bear up against this loss of blood."

For many days Jacob Dobbin lay in a darkened room, and many were the
thoughts of the other world which came into his mind; amongst them were
some connected with the holy martyrs. "Father," said he to his aged
parent as he sat by his side, "I have been learning a lesson about the
martyrs. I see now how unfit I was to be tried as they were; if I could
not bear the loss of one moss-rose patiently for Christ's sake, how
could I have borne fire and prison, and such like things?"

"Ah, Jacob," said the old man, "'tis in little common trials such as we
meet with every day, that, by God's grace, such a spirit is reared
within us as was in the hearts of the great martyrs of olden time;--tell
me, can you forgive the young squire?"

"The blessed Jesus forgave his persecutors," whispered Jacob faintly,
"and the martyrs prayed for those who tormented them--in this at least I
may be like them. Father, I do forgive the young squire; and, father,"
said Jacob, as he opened his eyes after an interval of a few minutes'
rest, "get your spade, and dig up the tree, and take it with my duty to
the young squire. Don't wait till I'm dead, father; I should not feel
parting with it then; but I love the tree, and I wish to give it to him
now. And if you dig up a very large ball of earth with it, he can have
it planted in his garden at once; and--;" but poor Jacob could say no
more; he sank back quite exhausted, and he never returned to the
subject again, for in a day or two afterwards he died.

       *       *       *       *       *

When old Leonard Dobbin appeared at the great house with his
wheel-barrow containing the rose tree and its ball of earth, there was
no small stir amongst the servants. Some said that it was fine impudence
in him to come troubling the family about his trumpery rose, bringing
the tree, as if he wanted to lay Jacob Dobbin's blood at their young
master's door; others shook their heads, and said it was a bad business,
and that that tree was an ugly present, and one that they should not
care to have; and as to old Aggie, she held her tongue, but prayed that
the child she had reared so anxiously might yet become changed, and grow
up an altered man.

Old Leonard could not get audience of the squire or his son; but the
gardener, who was in the servants' hall when he arrived with his rose,
told him to wheel it along, and he would plant it in Master James's
garden, and look after it until it bloomed again; and there the rose
finally took up its abode.

Meanwhile the young squire grew worse and worse; he respected no one's
property, if he fancied it himself; and all the tenants and domestics
were afraid of imposing any check upon his evil ways. He was not,
however, without some stings of conscience; he knew that Jacob Dobbin
was dead--he had even seen his newly-made grave in the churchyard on
Sunday; and he could not blot out from his memory the distress of poor
Jacob when last he saw him alive; moreover, some of the whisperings of
the neighbourhood reached his ears; and all these things made him feel
far from comfortable.

As day after day passed by, James Courtenay felt more and more
miserable: a settled sadness took possession of his mind, varied by fits
of restlessness and passion, and he felt that there was something
hanging over him, although he could not exactly tell what. It was
evident, from the whispers which had reached his ears, that there had
been some dreadful circumstances connected with poor Jacob Dobbin's
death, but he feared to inquire; and so day after day passed in
wretchedness, and there seemed little chance of matters getting any
better.

At length a change came in a very unexpected way. As James Courtenay was
riding along one day, he saw a pair of bantam fowls picking up the corn
about a stack in one of the tenants' yards. The bantams were very
handsome, and he felt a great desire to possess them; so he dismounted,
and seeing the farmer's son hard by, he asked him for how much he would
sell the fowls.

"They're not for sale, master," said the boy; "they belong to my young
sister, and she wouldn't sell those bantams for any money,--there isn't
a cock to match that one in all the country round."

"I'll give a sovereign for them," said James Courtenay.

"No, not ten," answered Jim Meyers.

"Then I'll take them, and no thanks," said the young squire; and so
saying, he flung Jim Meyers the sovereign, and began to hunt the bantams
into a corner of the yard.

"I say," cried Jim, "leave off hunting those bantams, master, or I must
call my father."

"Your father!" cried the young squire; "and pray, who's your father?
You're a pretty fellow to talk about a father; take care I don't bring
my father to you;" and having said this, he made a dart at the cock
bantam, that he had by this time driven into a corner.

"Look here," said Jim, doubling his fists. "You did a bad job, young
master, by Jacob Dobbin; you were the death of him, and I won't have you
the death of my little sister, by, maybe, her fretting herself to death
about these birds, so you look out, and if you touch one of these birds,
come what will of it, I'll touch you."

"Who ever said I did Jacob Dobbin any harm?" asked James Courtenay, his
face as pale as ashes; "I never laid a hand upon the brat."

"Brat or no brat," answered Jim Meyers, "you were the death of him; you
made him burst a blood-vessel, and I say you murdered him." This was too
much for James Courtenay to bear, so without more ado, he flew upon Jim
Meyers, intending to pommel him well; but Jim was not to be so easily
pommelled; he stood upon his guard, and soon dealt the young squire such
a blow between the eyes that he had no more power to fight.

"Vengeance! vengeance!" cried the angry youth. "I'll make you pay dearly
for this;" and slinking away, he got upon his pony and rode rapidly
home.

It may be easily imagined that on the young squire's arrival at the
Hall, in so melancholy a plight, the whole place was in terrible
confusion. Servants ran hither and thither, old Aggie went off for some
ice, and the footman ran to the stable to send the groom for the
doctor, and the whole house was turned upside down.

In the midst of all this, James Courtenay's father came home, and great
indeed was his rage when he heard that his son had received this beating
on his own property, and from the hands of a son of one of his own
tenantry; and his rage became greater and greater as the beaten boy gave
a very untrue account of what had occurred. "I was admiring a bantam of
Meyers," said he to his father, "and his son flew upon me like a tiger,
and hit me between the eyes."

Squire Courtenay determined to move in the matter at once, so he sent a
groom to summon the Meyers--both father and son. "I'll make Meyers pay
dearly for this," said the squire; "his lease is out next Michaelmas,
and I shall not renew it; and, besides, I'll prosecute his son."

All this delighted the young squire, and every minute seemed to him to
be an hour, until the arrival of the two Meyers, upon whom ample
vengeance was to be wreaked; and the pain of his eyes seemed as nothing,
so sweet was the prospect of revenge.

In the course of an hour the two Meyers arrived, and with much fear and
trembling were shown into their landlord's presence.

"Meyers," cried the squire, in great wrath, "you leave your farm at
Michaelmas; and as to that young scoundrel, your son, I'll have him
before the bench next bench-day, and I'll see whether I can't make him
pay for such tricks as these."

"What have I done," asked old Meyers, "to deserve being turned adrift?
If your honour will hear the whole of the story about this business, I
don't believe you'll turn me out on the cold world, after being on that
land nigh-hand forty years."

"'Hear!' I have heard enough about it; your son dared to lift a hand to
mine, and--and I'll have no tenant on my estate that will ever venture
upon such an outrage as that;--it was a great compliment to you for my
son to admire your bantams, or anything on your farm, without his being
subjected to such an assault."

"I don't want to excuse my boy," said old Meyers, "for touching the
young squire; and right sorry I am that he ever lifted a hand to him;
but begging your honour's pardon, the young squire provoked him to it,
and he did a great deal more than just admire my little girl's
bantams.--Come, Jim, speak up, and tell the squire all about it."

"Ay, speak up and excuse yourself, you young rascal, if you can," said
the angry squire; "and if you can't, you'll soon find your way into the
inside of a prison for this. Talk of poaching! what is it to an assault
upon the person?"

"I will speak up, then, your honour, since you wish it," said Jim
Meyers, "and I'll tell the whole truth of how this came about." And then
he told the whole story of the young squire having wanted to buy the
bantams, and on his not being permitted to do so, of his endeavouring to
take them by force. "And when I wouldn't let him carry away my sister's
birds, he flew on me like a game cock, and in self-defence I struck him
as I did."

"You said I murdered Jacob Dobbin," interrupted James Courtenay.

"Yes, I did," answered Jim Meyers, "and all the country says the same,
and I only say what every one else says; ask anybody within five miles
of this, and if they're not afraid to speak up, they'll tell just the
same tale that I do."

"Murdered Jacob Dobbin!" ejaculated the squire in astonishment; "I don't
believe my son ever lifted a hand to him,--you mean the crippled boy
that died some time ago?"

"Yes, he means him," said Jim Meyers' father; "and 'tis true what the
lad says, that folk for five miles round lay his death at the young
squire's door, and say that a day will come when his blood will be
required of him."

"Why, what happened?" asked the squire, beginning almost to tremble in
his chair; for he knew that his son was given to very violent tempers,
and was of a very arbitrary disposition; and he felt, moreover, within
the depths of his own heart, that he had not checked him as he should.
"What is the whole truth about this matter?"

"Come, speak up, Jim," said old Meyers; "you were poor Jacob's friend,
and you know most about it;" the squire also added a word, encouraging
the lad, who, thus emboldened, took courage and gave the squire the
whole history of poor Jacob Dobbin's one moss-rose. He told him of the
cripple's love for the plant, and how its one and only blossom had been
rudely snatched away by the young squire, and how poor Jacob burst a
blood vessel and finally died.

"And if your honour wants to know what became of the tree, you'll find
it planted in the young squire's garden," added Jim, "and the gardener
will tell you how it came there."

The reader will easily guess what must have been the young squire's
feelings as he heard the whole of this tale. Several times did he
endeavour to make his escape, under the plea that he was in great pain
from his face, and once or twice he pretended to faint away; but his
father, who, though proud and irreligious, was just, determined that he
should remain until the whole matter was searched out.

When Jim Meyers' story was ended, the squire bade him go into the
servants' hall, and his father also, while old Dobbin was sent for; and
as to James, his son, he told him to go up to his bed-room, and not come
down until he was called.

Poor old Leonard Dobbin was just as much frightened as Jim Meyers and
his father had been, at the summons to attend the squire. He had a
clear conscience, however; he felt that he had not wronged the squire in
anything; and so, washing himself and putting on his best Sunday
clothes, he made his way to the Hall as quickly as he could.

"Leonard Dobbin," said the squire, "I charge you, upon pain of my worst
displeasure, to tell me all you know about this story of your late son's
moss-rose tree. You need not be afraid to tell me all; your only cause
for fear will be the holding back from me anything connected with the
matter."

Leonard went through the whole story just as Jim Meyers had done; only
he added many little matters which made the young squire's conduct
appear even in a still worse light than it had already done. He was able
to add all about his poor crippled boy's forgiveness of the one who had
wronged him, and how he had himself wheeled the rose tree up to the
squire's door, and how it was now to be found in the young squire's
garden. "And if I may make so bold as to speak," continued old Leonard,
"nothing but true religion, and the love of Christ, and the power of
God's Spirit in the heart, will ever make us heartily forgive our
enemies, and not only forgive them, but render to them good for evil."

When Leonard Dobbin arrived James Courtenay had been sent for, and had
been obliged with crimsoned cheeks to listen to this story of the poor
crippled boy's feelings; and now he would have given all the roses in
the world, if they were his, to restore poor Jacob to life, or never to
have meddled with his flower; but what had been done could not be
undone, and no one could awake the poor boy from his long cold sleep in
the silent grave.

"Leonard Dobbin," said the squire, after he had sat for some time
moodily, with his face buried in his hands, "this is the worst blow I
have ever had in life. I would give £10,000 hard money, down on that
table, this very moment, that my boy had never touched your boy's rose.
But what is done cannot be undone; go home, and when I've thought upon
this matter I'll see you again."

"Meyers," said the squire, turning to the other tenant, "I was hasty in
saying a little while ago that I'd turn you out of your farm next
Michaelmas; you need have no fear about the matter; instead of turning
you out, I'll give you a lease of it. I hope you won't talk more than
can be helped about this terrible business. Now go."

The two men stood talking together for a while at the lodge before they
left the grounds of the great house; and old Leonard could not help
wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his rough coat, as he said to Meyers,
"Ah, neighbour, 'tis sore work having a child without the fear of God
before his eyes. I'd rather be the father of poor Jacob in his grave,
than of the young squire up yonder at the Hall."

       *       *       *       *       *

Bitter indeed were Squire Courtenay's feelings and reflections when the
two old men had left, and, his son having been ordered off to his
chamber, he found himself once more alone. The dusk of the evening came
on, but the squire did not seem to care for food, and, in truth, his
melancholy thoughts had taken all appetite away. At last he went to the
window, which looked out over a fine park and a long reach of valuable
property, and he began to think: What good will all these farms do this
boy, if the tenants upon them only hate him, and curse him? Perhaps,
with all this property, he may come to some bad end, and bring disgrace
upon his family and himself. And then the squire's own heart began to
smite him, and he thought: Am not I to blame for not having looked more
closely after him, and for not having corrected him whenever he went
wrong? I must do something at once. I must send him away from this
place, where almost every one lets him do as he likes, until he learns
how to control himself, at least so far as not to do injustice to
others.

Meanwhile the young squire's punishment had begun. When left to the
solitude of his room, after having heard the whole of Leonard Dobbin's
account of Jacob's death, a great horror took possession of his mind.
Many were the efforts the young lad made to shake off the gloomy
thoughts which came trooping into his mind; but every thought seemed to
have a hundred hooks by which it clung to the memory, so that once in
the mind, it could not be got rid of again. At length the young squire
lay down upon his bed, trembling as if he had the ague, and realizing
how true are the words, that "our sin will find us out," and that "the
way of transgressors is hard."

At last, to his great relief, the handle of his door was turned, and old
Aggie made her appearance.

"O Aggie, Aggie," cried James Courtenay, "come here. I'm fit to die,
with the horrid thoughts I have, and with the dreadful things I see. Jim
Meyers said I murdered Jacob Dobbin; and I believe I have, though I
didn't intend to do it. I wish I had never gone that way; I wish I had
never seen that rose; I wish there had never been a rose in the
world.--O dear, my poor head, my poor head! I think 'twill burst;" and
James Courtenay put his two hands upon the two sides of his head, as
though he wanted to keep them from splitting asunder.

Aggie saw that there was no use in speaking while James Courtenay's head
was in such a state as this. All she could do was to help him into bed,
and give him something to drink,--food he put from him, but drink he
asked for again and again. Water was all he craved, but Aggie was at
last obliged to give over, and say she was afraid to give him any more.

James Courtenay's state was speedily made known to his father, and in a
few minutes, from old Aggie's conversation with him, the groom was on
his way to a neighbouring town to hasten the family physician. The
latter soon arrived, and, after a few minutes with James Courtenay,
pronounced him to be in brain fever--the end of which, of course, no man
could foresee.

And a fearful fever indeed it was. Day after day passed in wild
delirium. The burden of all the poor sufferer's cries and thoughts was,
that he was a murderer. He used to call himself Cain, and to try to tear
the murderer's mark out of his forehead. Sometimes he rolled himself in
the sheet, and thought that he was dressed in a funeral cloak attending
Jacob Dobbin's funeral, and all the while knowing that he had caused his
death. At times the poor patient would attempt to spring from his bed;
and now he fancied that he was being whipped with the thorny branches
of rose trees; and now that he was being put in prison for stealing from
a poor man's garden. At one time he thought all the tenants on the
estate were hunting him off it with hounds, while he was fleeing from
them on his gray pony as fast as her legs could carry her; and the next
moment his pony was entangled hopelessly in the branches of little
Dobbin's rose tree, and the dogs were on him, and the huntsmen were
halloing, and he was about to be devoured. All these were the terrible
ravings of fever; and very awful it was to see the young squire with his
hair all shaved off, and vinegar rags over his head, tossing his arms
about, and endeavouring at times to burst from his nurses, and leap out
upon the floor. The one prevailing thought in all the sick boy's ravings
was Jacob Dobbin's rose bush. Jacob, or his rose bush in some form or
other, occupied a prominent part in every vision.

Ah, how terrible are the lashings of conscience! how terrible the
effects of sin! For what a small gratification did this unhappy youth
bring so much misery upon himself! And is it not often thus? The apostle
says, "What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now
ashamed?" And what fruit of pleasure had James Courtenay from his
plunder of Jacob Dobbin's rose? Where was that rose? It had long since
faded; its leaves were mingled with the dust upon which it had been
thrown; yet for the sake of the transient enjoyment of possessing that
flower a few days before abundance would have made their appearance in
his own garden, he had brought upon himself all this woe. Poor, very
poor indeed, are the pleasures of sin; and when they have been enjoyed,
they are like the ashes of a fire that has burned out. Compare James
Courtenay's present troubles,--his torture of mind, his pain of body,
his risk of losing his life, and the almost momentary enjoyment which he
had in plundering his poor neighbour of his moss-rose,--and see how
Satan cheats in his promises of enjoyment from sin.

Dear young reader! let not Satan persuade you that there is any profit
in sin--momentary pleasure there may indeed be, but it is soon gone, and
then come sorrow and distress. Sin is a sweet cup with bitter dregs, and
he who drinks the little sweet that there is, must drink the dregs also.
Moments of sin may cause years of sorrow.

       *       *       *       *       *

For many days James Courtenay hung between life and death; night and
day he was watched by skilful physicians, but they could do very little
more than let the disease run its course. At length a change for the
better appeared; the unhappy boy fell into a long sleep, and when he
opened his eyes his disease was gone. But it had left him in a truly
pitiable state. It was a sad sight to see the once robust boy now very
little better than a skeleton; to hear the once loud voice now no
stronger than a mere whisper; and instead of the mass of brown curly
hair, to behold nothing but linen rags which swathed the shaven head.

But all this Squire Courtenay did not so much mind; his son's life was
spared, and he made no doubt but that care and attention would soon
fatten him up again, and the curly locks would grow as luxuriantly as
they did before. Old Aggie, too, was full of joy; the boy that she had
nursed so tenderly, and for whom she had had such long anxiety, was not
cut off in the midst of his sins, and he might perhaps have his heart
changed and grow up to be a good man. And what an opportunity was this
for trying to impress his mind! Old Aggie was determined that it should
not be lost, and she hoped that the young squire might yet prove a
blessing, and not a curse, to those amongst whom he lived.

There were not wanting many upon Squire Courtenay's estate who would
have been very glad if the young squire had never recovered. They had
tasted a little of his bad character, and they feared that if he grew up
to inherit the property, he would prove a tyrannical landlord to them.
But amongst these was not to be reckoned old Leonard Dobbin. True, he
had suffered terribly--indeed more than any one else--from James
Courtenay's evil ways; but he did not on that account wish him dead--far
from it. It was old Leonard's great fear lest the young squire should
die in his sins, and no one asked more earnestly about the invalid than
this good old man.

As it was necessary that the sick boy should be kept as quiet as
possible, no one went near his room except old Aggie and those whose
services could not be dispensed with. Old Aggie alone was allowed to
talk to the invalid, and a long time would have elapsed before she could
venture to speak of the circumstances which had brought about this
dreadful illness, had not the young squire himself entered on the
subject.

"Aggie," said he one morning, after he had lain a long time quite still,
"I have been dreaming a beautiful dream."

This was quite delightful to the old nurse, who for many long days had
heard of nothing but visions of the most frightful kind.

"I saw a rose bush--"

"Hush, hush, Master James," said Aggie, terrified lest the dreadful
subject should come uppermost again, and once more bring on the delirium
and a relapse of the fever.

"No, no, Aggie, I cannot hush; it was a beautiful dream, and it has done
me more good than all the doctor's medicine. I saw a rose bush--a
moss-rose--and it had one bud upon it, and sitting under the bud was
little Jacob Dobbin. O Aggie, it was the same Jacob that used to be down
at the cottage, for I knew his face; but he was beautiful, instead of
sickly-looking; and instead of being all ragged, he was dressed in
something like silver. I wanted to run away from him, but he looked so
kindly at me that I could not stir; and at last he beckoned to me, and I
stood quite close to him; and only he looked so softly at me, I must
have been dazzled by the light on his face and his silvery clothes.

"I did not feel as though I dared to speak to him; but at last he spoke
to me, and his voice was as soft as a flute, and he said, 'All the roses
on earth fade and wither, but nothing fades or withers in the happy
place where I now live; and oh, do not be anxious to possess the
withering, fading flowers, but walk on the road that leads to my happy
home, where everything is bright for ever and ever.'

"Aggie, Aggie," said James Courtenay, who saw his nurse's anxious face,
and that she was about to stop his speaking any more, "it is no use to
try to stop my telling you all about it. My head has been so strange of
late, that I forget everything, and I am afraid of forgetting this
dream; so I must tell it now, and you are to write it down, that I may
have it to read, if it should slip out of my mind. Jacob Dobbin
said,--'You are not now in the right road; but ask Jesus to pardon your
sins, and then go and love everybody just as Jesus loved you; and try to
make every one happy, and do good morning, noon, and night, and try to
scatter some flowers of happiness in every place to which you go; and
then you shall be with me in the land where all is bright.' And I
thought Jacob pulled the one moss-rose, and gave it to me, and said,
'This is an earthly rose; keep it as long and as carefully as you will,
it will fade at last; but our flowers never fade: try, O try, to come to
them.' I heard music, Aggie, or something like music, or perhaps like a
stream flowing along, and I felt something like the summer breeze upon
my cheeks, and Jacob was gone, and there I stood with the rose in my
hand.

"Write it down, Aggie," said the invalid, "exactly as I have told you;"
and having said this, James Courtenay dropped off into a doze again.

Some days intervened between this reference to what had passed and the
next conversation upon the subject, in which James Courtenay told
Aggie--who had to listen much against her will--what he thought about
this wonderful dream.

"I know the meaning of that dream," said James Courtenay to his nurse.
"I do not want any one to explain it to me; I can tell all about it. The
meaning is, that I must become a changed boy, or I shall never go to
heaven when I die; and all the good things which I have here are not to
be compared with those which are to be had there. What Jacob said was,
that all these things are fading, and I must seek for what is better
than anything here.

"Aggie," said James Courtenay, "you often think I am asleep when I am
not; and you think I scarcely have my mind about me yet, when I lie so
long quite still, looking away into the blue sky: but I am thinking; I
am always thinking, and very often I am praying--asking forgiveness for
the past, and hoping that I shall be changed for the future."

"But we can't do much by hoping," said Aggie, "and we can't do anything
by ourselves."

"I mean to do more than _hope_," said James Courtenay; "I mean to
_try_."

"And you mean, I trust, to ask God's Spirit to help you?" said Aggie.

"Yes, every day," said James. "He helped Jacob, and he'll help me; and I
hope to be yet where Jacob is now."

"Ay, he helps the poor," said Aggie, "and he'll help the rich. Jacob had
his trials, and you'll have yours; and perhaps yours are the hardest, so
far as going to heaven is concerned; for the rich have a temptation in
every acre of land and in every guinea they have. Our Lord says that
''tis hard for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven.'"

For many days James Courtenay thus pondered and prayed, with Aggie as
his chief companion and instructor, and at length he was able to leave
his room. But he was a different James Courtenay from the one who had
entered that room some months before. The young squire was still pale
and thin; but this was not the chief change observable in him,--he was
silent and thoughtful in his manner, and gentle and kind to every one
around. The loud voice which once rang so imperiously and impatiently
through the corridors was now heard no more; the hand was not lifted to
strike, and often gratitude was expressed for any attention that was
shown. The servants looked at each other and wondered; they could
scarcely hope that such a change would last; and when their young master
returned to full health and strength, they quite expected the old state
of things to return again. But they were mistaken. The change in James
Courtenay was a real one; it was founded on something more substantial
than the transient feelings of illness,--he was changed _in his heart_.

And very soon he learnt by experience the happiness which true religion
brings with it. Instead of being served unwillingly by the servants
around, every one was anxious to please him; and he almost wondered at
times whether these could be the servants with whom he had lived all his
life. They now, indeed, gave a service of love; and a service of love is
as different from a service of mere duty as day is from night.

Wherever the young squire had most displayed his passionate temper,
there he made a point of going, for the sake of speaking kindly, and
undoing so far as he could the evil he had already done. He kept ever in
mind what he had heard from Jacob Dobbin in his dream,--that there was
not only a Saviour by whom alone he could be saved from his sins, but
also that there was a road on which it was necessary to walk; a road
which ran through daily life; a road on which loving deeds were to be
done, and loving words spoken;--the road of obedience to the mind of
Christ. James Courtenay well knew that obedience could not save him; but
he well knew also that obedience was required from such as were saved by
pure grace.

       *       *       *       *       *

Altered as James Courtenay undoubtedly was, and earnest as he felt to
become different to what he had been in olden time, he could not shake
off from his mind the sad memory of the past. His mind was continually
brooding upon poor little Dobbin's death, and upon the share which he
had in it. For now he knew all the truth. He had seen old Leonard, and
sat with him for many hours; and at his earnest request the old man had
told him all the truth. "Keep nothing back from me," said the young
squire, as he sat by old Leonard's humble fire-place, with his face
covered with his hands; and over and over again had the old man to
repeat the same story, and to call to mind every word that his departed
son had said.

"What shall I do, Leonard, to show my sorrow?" asked James Courtenay one
day. "Will you go and live in a new house, if I get papa to build one
for you?"

"Thank you, young squire," said Leonard; "it was here that Jacob was
born and died, and this will do for me well enough as long as I'm here.
And it don't distress me much, Master James, about its being a poor kind
of a place, for I'm only here for a while, and I've a better house up
yonder."

"Ay," said James Courtenay, "and Jacob is up yonder; but I fear, with
all my striving, I shall never get there; and what good will all my fine
property do me for ever so many years, if at the end of all I am shut
out of the happy land?"

"Master James, you need not be shut out," said old Dobbin; and he pulled
down the worn Bible from the shelf; "no, no; you need not be shut out.
Here is the verse that secured poor Jacob's inheritance, and here is the
verse that by God's grace secures mine, and it may secure yours too;"
and the old man read out the passage in 1 John i. 7, "The blood of Jesus
Christ his Son cleanseth us from _all_ sin." "All, all!" cried old
Dobbin, his voice rising as he proceeded, for his heart was on fire;
"from murder, theft, lying, stealing,--everything, everything! Oh, what
sinners are now in glory!--sinners no longer, but saints, washed in the
precious blood! Oh, how many are there now on earth waiting to be taken
away and be for ever with the Lord! I am bad, Master James; my heart is
full of sin in itself; but the blood of Jesus cleanseth from all
sin;--and whatever you have done may be all washed out; only cast
yourself, body and soul, on Christ."

"But how could I ever meet Jacob in heaven?" murmured the young squire
from between his hands, in which he had buried his face; "when I saw
him, must not I feel I murdered him? ay, I was the cause of his misery
and death, all for the sake of one fading, worthless flower!"

"Don't call it worthless, Master James; 'twas God's creature, and very
beautiful while it lasted; and you can't call a thing worthless that
gave a human being as much pleasure as that rose gave poor Jacob. But
whatever it was, it will make no hindrance to Jacob meeting you in
heaven,--ay, and welcoming you there, too. If you reach that happy
place, I'll be bound Jacob will meet you with a smile, and will welcome
you with a song into the happy land."

"Well, 'tis hard to understand," said James Courtenay.

"Yes, yes, Master James, hard to our poor natures, but easy to those who
are quite like their Saviour, as Jacob is now. When He was upon earth he
taught his followers to forgive, and to love their enemies, and to do
good to such as used them despitefully; and we may be sure that, now
they are with him, and are made like him, they carry out all he would
have them do, and they are all he would have them be. I don't believe
that there is one in heaven that would be more glad to see you, Master
James, than my poor boy,--if I may call him my poor boy, seeing he's now
in glory."

Many were the conversations of this kind which passed between old
Leonard and the young squire, and gradually the latter obtained more
peace in his mind. True, he could never divest himself of the awful
thought that he had been the immediate cause of his humble neighbour's
death; but he dwelt very much upon that word "all," and Aggie repeated
old Leonard's lessons, and by degrees he was able to lay even his great
trouble upon his Saviour.

But all that James Courtenay had gone through had told fearfully upon
his health. His long and severe illness, followed by so much mental
anxiety and trouble, laid in him the seeds of consumption. His friends,
who watched him anxiously, saw that as weeks rolled on he gained no
strength, and at length it was solemnly announced by the physician that
he was in consumption. There were symptoms which made it likely that the
disease would assume a very rapid form. And so it did. The young squire
began to waste almost visibly before the eyes of those around, and it
soon became evident, not only that his days were numbered, but that they
must be very few. And so they were. Three weeks saw the little invalid
laid upon his bed, with no prospect of rising from it again. At his own
earnest request he was told what his condition really was; and when he
heard it, not a tear started in his eye, not a murmur escaped his lips.
One request, and one only, did the dying boy prefer; and that was, that
Leonard Dobbin should be admitted to his room as often as he wished to
see him. And this was very often; as James had only intervals of
wakefulness, it became necessary that the old man should be always at
hand, so as to be ready at any hour of the day or night, and at length
he slept in a closet off the sick boy's room. And with Leonard came the
old worn Bible. The good old labourer was afraid, with his rough hands,
to touch the richly bound and gilt volume that was brought up from the
library; he knew every page in his own well-thumbed old book, and in
that he read, and from that he discoursed. The minister of the parish
came now and again; but when he heard of what use old Leonard had been
to the young squire, he said that God could use the uneducated man as
well as the one that was well-learned, and he rejoiced that by any
instrumentality, however humble, God had in grace and mercy wrought upon
the soul of this wayward boy.

At length the period of the young squire's life came to be numbered, not
by days, but hours, and his father sat by his dying bed.

"Papa," said the dying boy, "I shall soon be gone, and when I am dying I
shall want to think of Christ and of holy things alone;--you will do, I
know, what I want when I am gone."

Squire Courtenay pressed his son's hand, and told him he would do
anything, everything he wished.

"You remember that grandmamma left me some money when she died; give
Leonard Dobbin as much every year as will support him; and give him my
gray pony that he may be carried about, for he is getting too old to
work; and"--and it seemed as though the dying boy had to summon up all
his strength to say it--"bury me, not in our own grand vault, but by
Jacob Dobbin's grave; and put up a monument in our church to Jacob, and
cut upon it a broken rose; and let the rose bush be planted close to
where poor Jacob lies--"

The young squire could say no more, and it was a long time before he
spoke again; when he did, it was evident that he was fast departing to
another world. With the little strength at his command, the dying boy
muttered old Leonard's name; and in a moment the aged Christian, with
his Bible in his hand, stood by the bedside.

"Read, read," whispered Aggie the nurse; "he is pointing to your
Bible,--he wants you to read; and read quickly, Leonard, for he soon
won't be able to hear."

And Leonard, opening his Bible at the well-known place, read aloud, "The
blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin."

"_All, all_," whispered the dying boy.

"_All, all_," responded the old man.

"_All, all_," faintly echoed the dying boy, and in a few moments no
sound was heard in the sick-room--James Courtenay had departed to
realize the truth of the words, that "the blood of Jesus Christ
cleanseth from _all_ sin."

Next to the chief mourners at the funeral walked old Leonard Dobbin; and
close by the poor crippled Jacob's grave they buried James Courtenay--so
close that the two graves seemed almost one. And when a little time had
elapsed, the squire had a handsome tomb placed over his son, which
covered in the remains of poor Jacob too, and at the head of it was
planted the moss-rose tree. And he put up a tablet to poor Jacob's
memory in the church, and a broken rose was sculptured in a little round
ornament at the bottom of it.

And now the old Hall is without an heir, and the squire without a son.
But there is good hope that the squire thinks of a better world, and
that he would rather have his boy safe in heaven than here amid the
temptations of riches again.

Oh, what a wonder that there is mercy for the greatest sinners! but oh,
what misery comes of sin! "The wages of sin is death; but the gift of
God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord."

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 16, "worst? poor" changed to "worst; poor"





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