But whatever terrors the world to come
might hold for him seemed very faint and shapeless, compared with the
things from which he was to be taken. He thought of his untimely death as
a hardship, an injustice almost. When his wife entreated him to see the
vicar of Crosber before he died, he refused at first, asking what good
the vicar's talk could do him.
"If he could keep me alive as long as till next July, to see how those
turnips answer with the new dressing, I'd see him fast enough," he said
peevishly; "but he can't; and I don't want to hear his preaching."
"But it would be a comfort to you, surely, Stephen, to have him talk to
you a little about the goodness and mercy of God. He won't tell you hard
things, I'm sure of that."
"No, I suppose he'll try and make believe that death's uncommon
pleasant," answered Mr. Whitelaw with a bitter laugh; "as if it could be
pleasant to any man to leave such a place as Wyncomb, after doing as much
for the land, and spending as much labour and money upon it, as I have
done. It's like nurses telling children that a dose of physic's pleasant;
they wouldn't like to have to take it themselves."
And then by-and-by, when his last day had dawned, and he felt himself
growing weaker, Mr. Whitelaw expressed himself willing to comply with his
wife's request.
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