Saved as by Fire! CHAPTER 13.
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On the day following, I met Mr. Stannard, by agreement. We had made arrangements for placing Granger in the new Home as soon as we could get him released, and thus give him another opportunity to recover himself. All my interest in the man was reviving, and hope gaining strength every moment. Our visit to the Reformatory Home had been most satisfactory. We found the organization far more perfect than we had anticipated, seeing that the Institution was yet in its infancy. After spending an hour with the president, who happened to be there when we called, and obtaining from him all the information desired, we made such preliminary arrangements as were necessary for the admission of Granger, and left with the new hope for the fallen man, we were about making an attempt to rescue, growing stronger in our hearts every moment.
Before going to the prison, we called on the district attorney, who, on learning our purpose, gave an order for Granger's release, saying, as he did so: "I wish, gentlemen, that I could feel as hopeful as you seem to be, in regard to the result. But I'm afraid the case is beyond cure. Poor fellow! Our bar lost one of its brightest representatives in his fall. He was a splendid orator. I can hear his voice now, ringing out in some of his grand periods. Ah, if he had but let drink alone!"
"If men would only take warning by a fall like this," said Mr. Stannard.
"Few fall so rapidly or so low," returned the district attorney. "Some men are weak in the head where liquor is concerned, while others can drink on to the end, always maintaining a due moderation."
"And every man who drinks, believes that he can always hold himself to this due moderation."
"Yes, but some get over the line, before becoming aware that they have touched it."
"To find, like the too venturesome bather when struck by the undertow — that return is next to impossible."
We went from the district attorney's office directly to the prison, and were taken to the cell where Granger was confined. He was lying on his bed, apparently sleeping, but moved and turned towards us as we entered. At first I thought there had been a mistake. Could that wasted, haggard face, and those large, deep-set, dreary eyes be the face and eyes of Alexander Granger? It seemed impossible. But he had recognized us at a glance, as I saw by the quick changes in his countenance, and made an effort to rise; but sank back weakly on his hard pallet, a feeble moan coming at the same time through his lips.
"My poor, unhappy friend!" I said, in a voice of tender sympathy, as I sat down on the bed and took one of his hands in mine.
All the muscles of his face began to twitch and quiver. He shut his eyes closely, but could not hold back the shining drops that were already passing through the trembling lashes.
I waited a little while before speaking again, but kept tightly hold of his hand.
"Sick and in prison. My poor friend!" letting my voice fall to a lower and tenderer expression.
He caught his breath with a sob. Tears fell over his cheeks. All the muscles of his face were shaking. I waited until the paroxysm was over. How weak and wasted he was! As I looked at him, my heart grew heavy with compassion.
"There is still a chance for you, Mr. Granger," said I, putting hope and confidence in my voice.
There was no response; not even a faint gleam on his wretched face.
"Will you not try again?"
"It won't be of any use, Mr. Lyon. It's very good of you; but it won't be of any use." He spoke feebly and mournfully, moving his head slowly from side to side.
"It will be of use. I am sure that it will," I said, with still more confidence.
"You don't know anything about it, Mr. Lyon." His voice had gained a steadier tone; but its utter hopelessness was painful.
"Here is Mr. Stannard," I said. "You remember him."
"Yes. It's very good of you, gentlemen. But I don't deserve your kindness."
"We are here as your friends," said Mr. Stannard, coming close to the bed. "We are going to help you to get upon your feet again, and to become a new man."
He shook his head gloomily.
"I'm done trying. What's the use of a man attempting to climb a hill, when he knows that his strength must give out before he reaches the top, and that he will get bruised and broken in the inevitable fall. Better to die at the bottom of a ditch, as I shall die."
He had raised himself a little, and was leaning on his arm.
"You have been sick," said I, wishing to take his mind away from the thought which was then holding it.
"Yes, worse than sick. I've been in Hell and among devils!"
"But have escaped with your life."
"I'm not so sure. It's about over with me, I guess. You see there's not much left to go on."
He held up one of his thin, almost transparent hands, but could not keep it steady.
"Yes, worse than sick, I've been in Hell and among devils!"
"Don't say that. There's to be a new life within and without."
"Not for me. Not for Alexander Granger. Do you know what I am here for?" A dark cloud falling on his face. "For stealing! — for petty larceny! You see, it's all over with me. The very shame of the thing, is burning my life out. A thief! No, no, gentlemen. Even if I were able to stand against alcohol, I could not bear up under a disgrace like this."
"It was not Alexander Granger who committed this crime," answered Mr. Stannard, "but the insatiate demon who had enslaved him and made him subject to his will. Let us cast out this demon and give the true, generous-hearted, honorable man back to himself and society again. It is for this, that we are here, Mr. Granger."
He shook his head. "If, in the full vigor of manhood, I was not able to overcome and cast out this demon, what hope is there now? It were folly to make the effort. No, no, gentlemen. I give up the struggle. All that is worth living for, is gone. An utterly disgraced and degraded man, what is left for me but to die and be forgotten? And I shall be better here, dying sober, than in the gutter or the police station, dying drunk."
His voice trembled, and then broke in a repressed sob.
"There is One who can and who will save you, even from the power of this strong appetite which has so cursed you, my friend," said Mr. Stannard, speaking with a gentle persuasion in his tones, and at the same time laying his hand softly on Granger's head. "He is very near to you now — a loving Shepherd seeking for His lost sheep in the desolate wilderness, where it is ready to perish."
Then, kneeling, with his hand still on Granger's head, he prayed in a low, hushed voice:
"Loving Father, tender Shepherd. This Your poor wandering sheep is hungry and faint and ready to die. His flesh has been torn by the thorn and bramble; the wild beast has been after him, and the poison of serpents is in his blood. No help is left, but in You, and unless Your strong arm save him — he will surely perish. Draw his heart toward You. Give him to feel that in You alone is hope and safety. In his helplessness and despair, let faith and trust be quickened. You alone can save him from the power of this demon of drink. You can set him in a safe way, and keep him from falling again. Give him to feel this great truth, that if he casts himself at Your feet and cries from his sick and fainting heart, 'Save me, Lord!' You will hear and save."
Can I ever forget the almost despairing cry for help that was in Granger's voice as he repeated the words, "Save me, Lord!" throwing his hands above his head as he spoke, and lifting his eyes upwards? A strange thrill ran along my nerves.
"He will save you," said Mr. Stannard, as he rose from his knees. "Trust in Him, and He will give you strength to overcome all your enemies. Though your sins be as scarlet — He will make them as white as wool. Those who trust in the Lord, shall be as Mount Zion which cannot be removed, but abides forever. As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about His people."
I saw a change in Granger's face. It was growing calmer and stronger.
"There is a new life before you, my friend; and if you will look to God, and trust Him, and keep His words, you can live that life in safety. Will you try?"
"If I thought there was any use in trying. But what can I do? Where can I go?"
There was a pleading expression in look and voice "Will you try?"
"Yes, God helping me." He spoke with a kind of trembling earnestness.
"We have a carriage outside," I said. "You will go with us."
"How can I go? I'm a prisoner."
"A prisoner no longer. We have brought you a release."
"Is this only a dream?" he said, looking at us with a gathering doubt in his face. "But I am sick and weak. I cannot walk. I can scarcely stand, I am not fit to go anywhere."
He was taken to the carriage we had in waiting, supported by two of the keepers. But few words passed as we drove into the city and over the rattling streets to the institution where we had arranged to place him. He was very weak, and almost in a fainting condition when we reached our destination. Beyond the door, our care of him ceased; but we left money to procure clean clothing with which to replace, after he had received a bath, the poor, tattered and unclean garments that were on his person.
"If this fail, all fails," I said to Mr. Stannard, as we came away.
"I do not believe it will fail," he replied.
"I would gladly share your confidence, but confess that I do not. The influences under which he will now come, are, I can see, more favorable than any that have heretofore been brought to bear upon him; but there has been so great a physical and moral deterioration, that I fear he can never get back the strength required for safe standing and sure resistance.
"He is stronger, in my opinion, today than he has been at any time in the last ten years."
"I scarcely see the ground of your confidence," said I.
"Stronger because all faith and all trust in himself are dead. He had given up the struggle when we found him in prison — given up to die, and his 'Save me, Lord!' came from the depths of his utter despair. There will be no more trust in himself, I think; no more matching of his poor strength against the giant strength of an enemy before whose lightest blow, he must surely fall. But a complete giving of himself into the care and protection of One who is not only mighty to save, but who saves to the uttermost all who come unto Him. Herein lies the ground of my confidence."
"In such a giving up, Mr. Stannard, what becomes of the manhood? Is it wholly lost?"
"It is in this surrender of ourselves to God, that a higher and truer manhood is born. What is it to be a true man? To let the appetites and passions rule; or the reason, which, enlightened from above, can see and determine what is just, and pure, and merciful. Does the man possess himself as long as he lets the lower things of his nature, rule over the higher things? His appetites and passions, rule over his reason? The whole order of man's life has been reversed by sin. He has turned from God to himself, and vainly thinks that true manhood consists in self-dependence and self-assertion; as though his inmost life were his own, and not the perpetual gift of God. And so he tries to get as far away from God as possible, and to make a new life for himself; and as this new life begins in self, it is in the nature of things, a selfish life, and separates him from God and his neighbor. And he lives this life down in the lower regions of his mind, where sensual things reside — the appetites, the passions and the desires. Is it any wonder that, so living, these sensual things should gain dominion over him — a dominion that nothing short of Divine power can break? Herein lies the loss of true manhood, which can only be restored when we are willing to sell all that we have of self — in order to buy heavenly treasures. Granger is not going to lose, but gain his manhood."
"Ah, what a gain that would be!" I felt oppressed with the inflowing pressure of new thoughts. I was beginning to see, dimly, how two men might pray to God to be delivered from evil, and the prayer of one be answered, while that of the other proved of no avail. Until a man is ready to give up his selfish life, and turn wholly from the evil of his ways — how can God help him to live the new and diviner life which will give him power to hold all the appetites and passions of his nature in due subjection and control. I saw for the first time, an exact parallelism between spiritual and natural things. A vessel must be emptied of one substance — before it can be filled with another. So must a soul be emptied of evil and selfishness — before it can be filled with love to God and the neighbor. There must be poverty of spirit — before the riches of Divine grace can be given. "Blessed are the poor in spirit — for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven." The text flashed upon me with a new and deeper meaning than it had ever before brought to my mind.
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