MRS. WILKINSON and her son Charles lived in a small cottage in a charming Lancashire village. The great city roared only a few miles away, but in the village of N— a Sabbath calm perpetually reigned. Mrs. Wilkinson was a widow, thirty years of age, at the opening of our narrative, her husband having been dead a little over two years. Charles was a bright, active, willful little fellow.
As years passed on, willfulness and disobedience became the marked characteristics of his life. His conduct was a source of great anxiety to his mother. Hour after hour she spent upon her knees, anxiously, tearfully, praying to the Giver of all good for strength and guidance.
Daily she watched the developments of her child's character. With all a mother's weakness she admired, perhaps unduly, the good traits that were intermingled with the bad ones. She sought by every possible means to strengthen his moral purpose, so that he might be able to resist the many temptations which had already proved such a snare, and which, she apprehended, might, in after years, make his life a total wreck. She loved him, oh, so passionately. He was the one visible link which bound her to the happy years of union with one who had passed to his reward. She prayed that Charles might walk worthily and uprightly in the paths of peace and righteousness which his father had trod. Into the hands of God she committed him.
But despite his mother's prayers and loving watchfulness, Charles simply added sin to sin. His education was neglected because he would not apply himself to study. He refused to labor at manual toil because he had been delicately reared; he declined to attend the Sunday-school and village church because his companions jeered him. It was in vain that his mother pleaded with him to shun the companionship of the scornful. The lad chose a life of defiance to the cherished wishes of his only surviving and loving parent.
His mother bore her trial with patience. She had known many sorrows, but in every thing else the grace of God had been sufficient for her.
One day Charles startled his mother by rushing into the house, and crying: “I am tired of this drudgery, I am going off to sea."
Mrs. Wilkinson fell upon his neck, and wept over him, and prayed for him. But the youth's heart remained stubborn. He treated his mother with painful contempt; he declared he did not desire to be preached to; he had made up his mind what to do, and nothing would change him.
Nothing but the direct interposition of God's power could change that heart.
Though he bore the interview with his tearful mother with an apparently bold effrontery, Charles's conscience made him very much disinclined to listen again to her solemn pleadings. Amid the darkness of the night he stole quietly from that small bedroom, and left the home of his childhood. As he noiselessly crept along the staircase he heard a soft, subdued sound proceeding from his mother's bedroom. He felt compelled to listen. "O God, wherever he may go, whatever he may do, keep him close by Thy side; let Thy love and my repeated prayers draw him to Thee."
These were the words, intermingled with sobs, which fell upon his ears. For a moment there was a vital struggle between good and evil. Then he fled from that house.
The next ten years of Charles's life were full of excess and adventure. Then he found himself in a hospital at Alexandria, lying upon a sick bed, where he had time to contemplate his position. The bright dreams of his boyhood had not been realized. The reality was very different from the anticipation. Thoughts of his mother came to his mind. He had not thought very much of her during his years of willful wandering; he had never written a single letter to her.
When the doctors gravely shook their heads he determined to try to reach the home of his boyhood.
In that last voyage home, Charles could not be said to resemble the prodigal son of the Scriptures, since he could not be called repentant in the true sense of the word. The sense of his sin had not yet sunk deep into his heart. A natural, rather than a God-given instinct, made him retrace his steps towards home and mother. He knew his life had resolved itself into a case of a few months, nay, perhaps, only a very few weeks. He trembled at the thought of dying, alone and unknown in a hospital, in a strange land. In distress he turned towards his mother, as almost all men and women do.
The vessel steamed towards Liverpool, and when he had reached the great seaport, he was almost as weak as a child. It was dark when once again he faced the familiar cottage. Ten years, with all their delinquencies, with all their sorrows, culminating in despair, had passed since, amid midnight blackness, he stole away from its humble peaceful shelter, but everything seemed the same. All the old recollections flooded to his memory, as with hesitating steps, he walked through the small garden which led to the cottage door. He did not stop, even for a moment, to wonder whether his mother still resided there. A light burnt in the window, and, as though by mere force of habit, he raised the latch and walked in.
The poorly-furnished apartment was empty. Quietly he sat down in his mother's armchair.
The fire was almost extinguished, and the clock on the mantelshelf was pointing towards eleven. He knew his mother always retired to bed early.
For a moment he wondered whether to remain where he was through the night, or call her downstairs. He was touched by the sight of the burning lamp, the plate of bread and butter, and glass of milk. This was the supper he always had in the happier years gone by. Then suddenly he fell into a troubled sleep, from which he awoke with a start, crying, "Mother, mother, forgive me, forgive me."
Two or three minutes afterwards he heard a light footstep upon the stairs. He looked. There was his mother, with a large shawl thrown around her.
It was a pathetic meeting. "Charlie, Charlie, I thank God, you have come at last," and, sobbing for joy, she fell into the outstretched arms of her long-lost boy.
The wanderer's heart was softened by the evidence of a mother's undying love. Quietly he stroked her hair—as he had often done years ago. “Nay, nay, mother, don't thank God for my return, for I bring a curse with me."
“My boy, God can turn a curse into a blessing. I will thank Him with all my heart."
Then her eyes looked right into the face of her son. A momentary glance told her the whole truth. Death was written upon those once happy features. A groan escaped her lips—a mother's groan, for the expected loss of one of her treasures. A moment later she reproached herself for her ingratitude, and then fell upon her knees, and poured out her soul in prayer to God.
Oh, what a prayer it was. Great tears ran down the pale wan cheeks of the sailor as the passionate words of gratitude for his return fell from his mother's lips.
There was a long silence, and then the mother said, "Charlie, though I never heard from you, God put it into my heart to expect your return. Every night, for the last ten years, I have left the door on the latch, the lamp burning, and a little supper on the table. God's promises are so far fulfilled. Praise His Holy Name for answering your poor mother's prayers."
For an hour or so these re-united ones sat narrating their strangely different stories. One had walked closely with God; the other had wandered into almost every possible excess, but he had never been able to get away from a mother's prayers, or the influence of God's beneficent love.
The young man eventually went to bed-the small bed he had occupied years ago. Everything convinced him that his mother had everything ready for his return, when her prayers and God's purposes were fulfilled.
He never rose from that bed. The illness had almost reached its full development when he reached home.
A doctor was called in on the following morning. The only comfort he could give was that he might live for a few months. There was no immediate danger, as far as he could determine.
The mother then pleaded with her son to accept the ministrations of the old servant of God, who had for many years acted as a devoted shepherd to his small flock. Charlie stoutly refused to see him, and declared that as he had lived a bad man, as a bad man he must die.
The anxious mother placed the whole matter before God in earnest prayer, and even whilst she prayed God was answering.
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Dr. Johnson was a godly man. His life had been one of praise and devotion. He had completed a hard day's work, and late at night he sat in his study and rested. His thoughts reverted to his many patients, and the young sailor's case came prominently before him. He knew he had lived a wicked life; he knew also that his days for repentance were numbered.
Then it seemed as though God spoke with him. In the silence he thought he heard the words, “The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin." He could thank God that that was his own personal experience. He thought a moment: “That is the message God intends me to take to that poor sinner."
The thought took full possession of him. He felt that God was calling him to carry the blessed message of peace to Charles Wilkinson.
It was some distance to the widow's cottage; it was very late; it was also snowing hard, and the thought entered the doctor's mind, "The case is not urgent—the young man will probably live a month yet," and he tried once more to rest.
But the text came again to him, and, rising up, in faith and hope, he went out to give it to the prodigal son.
When he reached the cottage he found the mother watching by the bedside of her boy, who was no worse.
Presently she left the sick room, and as soon as they were alone the doctor said, “God has sent me to you with a message, Charles Wilkinson."
The sufferer made no reply.
“I felt compelled to bring God's message to you tonight. I could not rest."
Still no reply. He lay in silence.
“‘The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.' That is the message."
The Christian doctor had delivered his message. He left it and the invalid in the hands of God.
When Mrs. Wilkinson went into the bedroom soon afterwards she found her son with his head on his hand, evidently thinking.
“The doctor ought to have been a parson, mother," he said, after a long pause.
"He is a minister, for he does God's service. What did he say, my boy?"
“He told me he had brought a message from God to me."
“What was his message?”
“He told me that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin. Is it true, mother?"
“It is true, my boy, graciously true. Repeat the message after me."
With faltering accents, intermingled with many a sob, Charles repeated, “The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin."
“Oh, thank God! thank God, there is pardon for my sins. The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth me
He could not get any further. A violent attack intervened.
Let us hope that the mother's prayers were heard, and that Charles Wilkinson, wayward, willful, wicked, was cleansed from all his sins by Christ's precious blood.
J. J. L.