CHAPTER IV

A TROUBLED NIGHT

IT was not, however, a good night, as far as Kenneth Fortescue was concerned, for he found it utterly impossible to sleep. Was it surprising that this should be the case, after the agitating day that had gone before it? The startling telegram from home, the suspense during the journey, the unexpected meeting with his friends in Birmingham, the sad news on arriving home of his father's illness—the remembrance of all these kept sleep far away from him.

And then there was the cause of that illness—the ruin which had befallen all his hopes and prospects. How could he continue in the army, if his father were correct in saying that all his money was lost? It would be impossible! He was not an extravagant man; but he knew that, with the greatest care and economy, he could not live upon his captain's pay. What, then, could he do? What would become of him? What future could possibly be in front of him?

Then his thoughts travelled to the mysterious envelope which lay in the safe in the next room. What would he find when he opened it? What revelation for him did it contain?

His father had said something about money belonging to himself, which had been lost with the rest; he had never known that he possessed any. Could it be money settled on his mother, which reverted to him at her death? If so, why was he never told of this? Why was it not handed over to him when he came of age? Could there be wrongdoing on his father's part of which he as yet knew nothing?

Then more troubled thoughts still distracted him and kept him long awake. He thought of poor Mrs. Douglas—a widow with a family dependent upon her—and then of the awful news which he had to break to her—news which made him ashamed of his own father. What business had he to put trust money—for surely that insurance money was that in reality—into such a risky concern as a South American gold mine? How could his father have been so foolish—he had almost said so wicked; but, inasmuch as all the old man's own money was invested in the same concern, he gladly altered the adjective to foolish. How should he ever tell her? How could he possibly soften down so hard and terrible a blow? What could he say to let her know how much he felt for her? He would always look upon that four thousand pounds as a debt that he owed to her and to her family. If not legally bound to repay her, he felt that morally he was responsible. Yet how could he possibly do it? He knew not how to provide for his own wants in the future, much less how to be able to save so large a sum.

Then he thought of the poor old man, dying in the next room; that he was dying, he had very little doubt. There was a look in his face which he had never seen there before, and he knew what that look meant—the soul was striving to escape from the poor worn-out body. And where was that soul going? Was his father ready for the great change so close upon him?

It was only lately that Captain Fortescue had felt the all-importance of knowing that the soul is safe for Eternity. But his regiment had been ordered out to the war, and, on the eve of a great battle, he was resting in his tent when three officers rode past it. They pulled up close to where he was, and stood still looking at the sunset, which was a very glorious one that evening. One of them—the eldest of the three—said as he looked across the valley at the long lines of the enemy—

"I wonder where we three will be when the sun sets to-morrow evening?"

The man next him laughed, and said lightly, "Who cares? A short life and a merry one for me!"

"What do you say?" asked the senior officer, turning to the young lieutenant, who was riding on the other side of him.

As Fortescue lay in his tent, with the door open to the west, he could see the young officer, whom he had known at Sandhurst, looking steadfastly at the fast-setting sun; and he could hear him say softly, almost as if he were speaking to himself—

"Peace, perfect peace; my future all unknown. Jesus I know, and He is on the Throne."

The next evening came, and the sunset was as fine as the night before, but the golden rays were streaming down upon a bloody battlefield covered with the dead and dying. The Major who had asked that question of his companions was riding across the valley, but he was riding alone; for his two friends were lying amongst the dead, cold and still. Fortescue saw him, and he knew that he alone of the three was left to see the sun go down. And, as he looked, he envied the young lieutenant who had met death with such calm confidence. Perhaps the next battlefield might be his own last resting-place. Who knew? And as he knelt in his tent that night to say his prayers he had asked that that perfect peace might be his also; and now he, too, could say—

"Jesus I know, and He is on the Throne."

But could his poor old father say that? He was afraid not. He felt that he ought to speak to him, but it would be very difficult.

The Captain was naturally a very reserved man; he would have found it extremely difficult to speak to any one on such a subject, but to say anything of the kind to his old father seemed to him a task which he dared not undertake. Perhaps he could persuade him to see a clergyman to-morrow; he could, at any rate, venture to suggest that he should do so.

And so at last morning dawned, and, thoroughly wearied by the many troubled thoughts of the night, Captain Fortescue got up and dressed. But before he went downstairs, he crept into his father's room and stood by his bed. Watson had gone to the kitchen for something she wanted, and he found no one in the room. The old man's eyes were closed, and he thought he was asleep. But he opened his eyes after a time, and looked at his son.

"Kenneth," he said.

"Yes, father. I came to see how you are."

"Remember your promise."

"I won't forget."

"I'm very ill, Kenneth."

"I'm afraid you are, father. Won't you let me send for the clergyman to come and see you?"

"No, Kenneth—no. I don't know him. He's only just come here. He did call once, but I was out."

There were a few minutes' silence after this, and then he said:

"Couldn't you talk to me a bit, Ken? You know more of these things than I do. I want—I want—"

"You want to know where you are going, father; that's it, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's it, Ken. It's all dark-like, and I've not been what I ought to ha' been."

"We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have left undone what we ought to have done, and have done that which we ought not to have done, and there is no health in us."

"That's it, Ken," said the old man; "that's just it!"

"But the Lord Jesus came to save the lost sheep, father. He will save you, if you ask Him. He died for sinners, you know."

"Yes, Kenneth, yes; but I don't know how to ask Him. What shall I say?"

"Say this, father—

"'Just as I am without one plea, But that Thy Blood was shed for me, And that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come.'"

The old man repeated the words after his son, and many and many a time during the day, as Captain Fortescue sat beside him, he heard him saying softly—

"O Lamb of God, I come."

Kenneth Fortescue never went to bed that night, he sat holding his dying father's hand.

Watson did her best to get rid of him, but in vain; he insisted upon remaining where he was. The old butler also crept into the room, and sat watching his master from the foot of the bed.

And, just as the first morning light came streaming through the window, the Captain heard the old man say for the last time—

"O Lamb of God, I come."

And the next minute all was still, and their long watch was ended.