LATE one stormy evening the old doctor was summoned to see a man who had been attacked with sudden illness on the oars, and had stopped at a little inn near the railway station, about three miles from die village. The patient proved to be Squire Joyce, from the neighboring county, whom the doctor slightly knew. He examined him carefully, and gave him medicines taken from his saddle-bags. Then he rose to go, smiling cheerfully down at the anxious face of the sufferer.
“You will, I think, find yourself better in the morning; able, I hope, to go on your journey,” he said.
“Yes. Stay a minute, doctor. I want you to be honest with me. I have had seizures like this before. Shall I have them again?”
“It is probable.”
“I want the truth―all of it.”
“Yes, they will return.”
“I may die in one of them—tomorrow?”
“Yes. Or it may be, not for years. It is uncertain. Do not waste your life in anticipating them. We all must go through the same gate some day.”
“The gate―yes! But beyond the gate—what is there?”
HIS EYES WERE ON THE DOCTOR’S FACE,
full of doubt, almost of pain.
The two men were silent a moment.
“What is there?” Joyce repeated harshly. “You are a member of a church—a Christian. I have no religious belief. Tell me, for the love of God, what is there beyond? If I may go tomorrow, what shall I find?”
“I do not know.”
Joyce did not speak for a while, and then gave a forced laugh.
“I need your help more for this than for my disease. I’d rather talk to you than to a clergyman. You are a shrewd man of the world, and a good man. Sometimes I am greatly depressed, thinking of this darkness into which I am going. For thousands of years men have gone out into it, leaving their loved ones behind, and not one has sent back a word to say how it fares with him―not one.”
In the silence that followed the rain beat against the windows. There came a slight whimpering cry from without.
“You are an old man, doctor,” said Joyce, turning quickly on him. “You are not far from the gate yourself. Are you not afraid of what may be beyond?”
“No,” said the old man; “no, I’m not afraid. May I ask you to look here?”
HE ROSE AND OPENED THE DOOR,
Outside, in the dark hall, lay a little fox-terrier, drenched with rain. He was crouched on the floor, his eyes fixed on the closed door.
“This is my dog, a bright affectionate little fellow. He followed me through the storm, knowing that I was in this closed chamber. He never was here before. He did not know what was in the room. He did not care to know. I was in it, his master whom he loves, and who has cared for him. He was not afraid.”
Joyce looked at the doctor keenly a moment before he spoke.
“You mean―”
“I mean that I am like poor Punch. I am not afraid of the dark room to which I am going. I do not ask to know what is there. I believe that my Lord and Master is there. In all these later years of my life I have felt that He has cared for me. My confidence has been such that I have been assured that in my hours of trial He has never failed me here. I sincerely believe He will not fail me yonder.”
“But I―I do not know Him.”
“He knows you. I think I am authorized by the declarations of the Bible to say that His hand is stretched out to you. I think, too, that I can reverently ask you to take it. You must accept Him as your Saviour, Guide, and Teacher. That done in sincerity, you will not fear the gate, nor all that lies beyond it.”
ANON.