His colonel wrote to Kirsty: "I have no heart to write about him at
this time. If he is gone, I know too well what it means to you, and I
know what it means to the regiment. His ideals were an inspiration to
the men he led...."
The rest was silence.
Mr. Smillie still preaches, and Kirsty still sits in the Manse waiting
and hoping. Her face has grown very patient, and I think she feels that
if Andrew never comes back to her, she has wings which will some day
carry her to him.
* * * * *
Alan Seton got leave at Christmas for four days.
The excitement at Etterick passed description. Marget cooked and baked
everything she could think of, and never once lost her temper.
Provisions were got out from Edinburgh; some people near lent a car for
the few days; nothing was lacking to do him honour. The house was hung
with holly from garret to basement, and in the most unexpected places;
for Buff, as decorator, was determined to be thorough.
Everything was Christmas-like except the weather. Buff had been praying
very earnestly for snow and frost that they might toboggan, but
evidently his expectations had not been great nor his faith of the kind
that removes mountains, for when he looked out on Christmas Eve morning
he said, "I _knew_ it--raining!"
They had not seen Alan for three years, and four days seemed a
deplorably short span of time to ask all they wanted to know.
Buff was quite shy before this tall soldier-brother and for the first
hour eyed him in complete silence; then he sidled up to him with a book
in his hand, explaining that it was his chiefest treasure, and was
called _The Frontiersman's Pocket-Book_. It told you everything you
wanted to know if you were a frontiersman, which, Buff pointed out, was
very useful. Small-pox, enteric, snake-bite, sleeping-sickness, it gave
the treatment for them all and the cure--if there was one.
"I like the note on 'Madness,'" said Elizabeth, who was watching the
little scene. "It says simply, 'Remove spurs.' Evidently, if the
patient is not wearing spurs, nothing can be done."
Alan put his arm round his small brother. "It's a fine book, Buff. You
will be a useful man some day out in the Colonies stored with all that
information."
"Would--would you like it, Alan?" Buff asked; and then, with a gulp of
resignation, "I'll give it you."
"Thanks very much, old man," Alan said gravely. "It would be of
tremendous use to me in India, if you'll let me have it when I go back;
but over in France, you see, we are simply hotching with doctors, and
very little time for taking illnesses."
"Well," said Buff in a relieved tone, "I'll keep it for you;" and he
departed with his treasure, in case Alan changed his mind.
"I'm glad you didn't take it," said Elizabeth. "He would be very lonely
without that book. It lies down with him at night and rises with him in
the morning."
"Rum little chap!" Alan said. "I've wanted him badly all the time in
India.... Lizbeth, is Father pretty seedy? You didn't say much in your
letters about why he retired, but I can see a big difference in him."
"Oh! but he's better, Alan," Elizabeth assured him--"much better than
when he left Glasgow; then he did look frail."
"Well, it is good to be home and see all you funny folk again," Alan
said contentedly, as he lay back in a most downy and capacious
arm-chair. "We don't get chairs like this in dug-outs."
It was a wonderful four days, for everything that had been planned came
to pass in the most perfect way, and there was no hitch anywhere.
Alan was in his highest spirits, full of stories of his men and of the
life out there. "You don't seem to realize, you people," he kept
telling them, "what tremendous luck it is for me coming in for this
jolly old war."
He looked so well that Elizabeth's anxious heart was easier than it had
been for months. Things couldn't be so bad out there, she told herself,
if Alan could come back a picture of rude health and in such gay
spirits. On the last night Alan went up with Elizabeth to her room to
see, he said, if the fire were cosy, and sitting together on the
fender-stool they talked--talked of their father ("Take care of him,
Lizbeth," Alan said. "Father is a bit extra, you know. I've yet to find
a better man"), of how things had worked out, of Walter in India, of
the small Buff asleep next door--one of those fireside family talks
which are about the most comfortable things in the world. "I'm glad you
came to Etterick, I like to think of you here," Alan said. "Well--I'm
off to-morrow again."
"Alan," said Elizabeth, "is it very awful?"
"Well, it isn't a picnic, you know. It's pretty grim sometimes. But I
wouldn't be out of it for anything."
"I'll tell you what I wish," said his sister. "I wish you could get a
bullet in your arm that would keep you from using it for a long time.
And we would get you home to nurse. Oh! wouldn't that be heavenly?"
Alan laughed.
"Nice patriotic creature you are! But seriously, Lizbeth, if I do get
knocked out--it does happen now and again, and there is no reason why I
should escape--I want you to know that I don't mind. I've had a
thoroughly good life. We've had our sad times--and the queer thing is
that out there it isn't sad to think about Mother and Sandy: it's
comforting, you would wonder!--but when we are happy we are much
happier than most people. I haven't got any premonition, you know, or
anything like that; indeed, I hope to come bounding home again in
spring, but just in case--remember, I was glad to go."
He put his hand gently on his sister's bowed golden head. Sandy had had
just such gentle ways. Elizabeth caught his hand and held it to her
face, and her tears fell on it.
"Oh! Lizbeth, are you giving way to sentiment? Just think how Fish
would lawff!" and Alan patted her shoulder in an embarrassed way.
Elizabeth laughed through her tears.
"Imagine you remembering Fish all these years! We were very
unsentimental children, weren't we? And do you remember how Sandy
stopped kissing by law?"
They talked themselves back on to the level, and then Alan got up to go.
"Good-night, Lizbeth," he said, and then "_Wee_ Lizbeth"; and his
sister replied as she had done when they were little children cuddling
down in their beds without a care in the world:
"Good-night, Alan. _Wee_ Alan!"
The next morning he was off early to catch the London express.
It was a lovely springlike morning such as sometimes comes in
mid-winter, and he stood on the doorstep and looked over the
country-side. All the family, including Marget and Watty Laidlaw and
his wife, stood around him. They were loth to let him go.
"When will you be back, my boy?" his father asked him.
"April, if I can work it," Alan replied. "After two hot weathers in
India I simply pine to see the larches out at Etterick, and hear the
blackbirds shouting. Scotland owes it to me. Don't you think so,
Father?"
The motor was at the door, the luggage was in, and the partings
said--those wordless partings. Alan jumped into the car and grinned
cheerily at them.
"Till April," he said. "Remember--Toujours Smiley-face, as we Parisians
say----" and he was gone.
They turned to go in, and Marget said fiercely:
"Eh, I wull tak' it ill oot if thae Germans kill that bonnie laddie."
"I almost wish," said Buff, sitting before his porridge with _The
Frontiersman's Pocket-Book_ clutched close to comfort his sad heart--"I
almost wish that he hadn't come home. I had forgotten how nice he was!"
It was in April that he fell, and at Etterick the blackbirds were
"shouting" as the telegraph boy--innocent messenger of woe--wheeled his
way among the larches.
_CHAPTER XX_
"The Poet says dear City of Cecrops, wilt thou not say dear City of
God?" Marcus Aurelius.
Our story ends where it began, in the Thomsons' parlour in Jeanieville,
Pollokshields.
It was November then, now it is May, and light long after tea, and in
happier circumstances Mr. Thomson would have been out in his
shirt-sleeves in the garden, putting in plants and sowing seeds, with
Mrs. Thomson (a white shawl round her shoulders) standing beside him
admiring, and Alick running the mower, and Jessie offering advice, and
Robert sitting with his books by an open window exchanging a remark
with them now and again. They had enjoyed many such spring evenings.
But this remorseless war had drawn the little Thomsons into the net,
and they sat huddled in the parlour, with no thought for the gay green
world outside.
This was Robert's last evening at home. He had been training ever since
the war broke out, and was now about to sail for the East. They feared
that Gallipoli was his destination, that ill-omened place on whose
alien shores thousands and thousands of our best and bravest were to
"drink death like wine," while their country looked on in anguished
pride.
Mr. Chalmers, their new minister, had been in to tea. He had clapped
Robert on the back and told him he was proud of him, and proud of the
great Cause he was going to fight for. "I envy you, my boy," he said.
Robert had said nothing, but his face wore the expression "_Huch!
Away!_" and when the well-meaning parson had gone he expressed a desire
to know what the man thought he was talking about.
"But, man Rubbert," his father said anxiously, "surely you're glad to
fight for the Right?"
"If Mr. Chalmers thinks it such a fine thing to fight," said Robert,
"why doesn't he go and do it? He's not much more than thirty."
"He's married, Robert," his mother reminded him, "and three wee ones.
You could hardly expect it. Besides, he was telling me that if many
more ministers go away to be chaplains they'll have to shut some of the
churches."
"And high time, too," said Robert.
"Aw, Rubbert," wailed poor Mrs. Thomson, "what harm do the churches do
you?"
"Never heed him, Mamma," Mr. Thomson said. "He's just sayin' it."
Mrs. Thomson sat on her low chair by the fireside--the nursing chair
where she had sat and played with her babies in the long past happy
days, her kind face disfigured by much crying, her hands idle in her
lap, looking at her first-born as if she grudged every moment her eyes
were away from him. It seemed as if she were learning every line of his
face by heart to help her in a future that would hold no Robert.
Jessie, freed for the night from her nursing, sat silently doing a last
bit of sewing for her brother.
Alick was playing idly with the buckle of Robert's haversack, and
relating at intervals small items of news culled from the evening
papers, by way of cheering his family. Robert, always quiet, was almost
speechless this last evening.
"I saw Taylor to-day," Mr. Thomson remarked, after a silence. "He asked
to be remembered to you, Rubbert. In fact, he kinda hinted he would
look in to-night--but I discouraged him."
"Wee Taylor! Oh, help!" ejaculated Alick.
"You were quite right, Papa," said his wife. "We're not wanting anybody
the night, not even old friends like the Taylors."
Silence fell again, and Alick hummed a tune.
"Rubbert," said Mrs. Thomson, leaning forward and touching her son's
arm, "Rubbert, promise me that you'll not do anything brave."
Robert's infrequent smile broke over his face, making it oddly
attractive.
"You're not much of a Roman matron, wee body," he said, patting her
hand.
"I am not," said Mrs. Thomson. "I niver was meant for a soldier's
mother. I niver liked soldiers. I niver thought it was a very
respectable job."
"It's the _only_ respectable job just now, anyway, Mother," said Jessie.
"That's so," said her father.
"There's the bell," cried Alick. "I hear Annie letting somebody in."
"Dash!" said Robert, rising to fly. But he was too late; the door
opened, and Annie announced "Mr. Seton."
At the sight of the tall familiar figure everybody rose to their feet
and hastened to greet their old minister.
"Well, I niver," said Mrs. Thomson, "and me just saying we couldn't put
up with visitors the night."
"You see we don't count you a visitor," Mr. Thomson explained.
"Rubbert's off to-morrow."
"I know," said Mr. Seton. "That is why I came. We are in Glasgow for a
few days. I left Elizabeth and Buff at the Central Hotel. Elizabeth
said you wouldn't want her to-night, but she will come before we leave."
"How is she?" asked Mrs. Thomson. "Poor thing! She'll not laugh so much
now."
"Lizbeth," said her father, "is a gallant creature. I think she will
always laugh, and like Charles Lamb she will always find this world a
pretty world."
This state of mind made no appeal to Mrs. Thomson, and she changed the
subject by asking about Mr. Seton's health. His face, she noticed, was
lined and worn, he stooped more than he used to do, but his eyes were
the same--a hopeful boy's eyes.
"Oh, I'm wonderfully well. You don't grudge me an hour of Robert's last
evening? I baptized the boy."
"Ye did that, Mr. Seton"--the tears beginning to flow at the
thought--"and little did any of us think that this is what he was to
come to."
"No," said Mr. Seton, "we little thought what a privilege was to be
his. Robert, when I heard you had enlisted I said, 'Well done,' for I
knew what it meant to you to leave your books. And I hear you wouldn't
take a commission, but preferred to go with the men you had trained
with."
Robert blushed, but his face did not wear the "affronted" look that it
generally wore when people praised him as a patriot.
"Ah but, Mr. Seton," Alick broke in eagerly, "Robert's a sergeant! See
his stripes! That's just about as good as an officer."
Robert made a grab at his young brother to silence him; but Alick was
not to be suppressed.
"I shouldn't wonder," he said in a loud, boastful voice (he had never
been so miserable in all his fifteen years)--"I shouldn't wonder if he
got the V.C. That would be fine--eh, Robert?"
"I think I see myself," said Robert.
"Rubbert's a queer laddie," Mr. Thomson remarked, looking tenderly at
his son. "He was objectin' to Mr. Chalmers sayin' he had a noble Cause."
Robert blushed again.
"There's nothing wrong with the Cause," he grumbled, "but I hate
talking about it."
"'Truth hath a quiet breast,'" quoted Mr. Seton.
There was a silence in the little parlour that looked out on the
garden. They were all thinking the same thing--would they ever sit here
together again?
So many had gone away! So many had not come back. Mrs. Thomson gave a
choking sob and burst out: "Oh! Mr. Seton, your boy didn't come back!"
"No," said Mr. Seton gently, "my boy didn't come back!"
"And oh! the bonnie laddie he was! I can just see him as well; the way
he used to come swinging into church with his kilt, and his fair hair,
and his face so full of daylight. And I'm sure it wasna for want of
prayers, for I'm sure Papa there niver missed once, morning and night,
and in our own private prayers too--and you would pray just even on?"
"Just even on," said Mr. Seton.
"_And He never heeded us_," said Mrs. Thomson.
Mr. Seton smiled at the dismayed amazement in her tone.
"Oh, yes, He heeded us. He answered our prayers beyond our asking. We
asked life for Alan, and he has given him length of days for ever and
ever."
"But that wasna what we meant," complained Mrs. Thomson. "Oh! I whiles
think I'm not a Christian at all now. I _cannot_ see why God allows
this war. There's Mrs. Forsyth, a neighbour of ours--you wouldn't meet
a more contented woman and that proud of her doctor son, Hugh. It was
the biggest treat you could give her just to let her talk about him,
and I must say he was a cliver, cliver young man. He did wonders at
College, and he was gettin' such a fine West End practice when the war
began; but nothing would serve but he would away out to France to give
his services, and he's killed--_killed_!" Her voice rose in a wail of
horror that so untoward a fate should have overtaken any friend of
hers. "And oh! Mr. Seton, how am I to let Rubbert go? All his life I've
taken such care of him, because he's not just that awfully strong; he
was real sickly as a bairn and awful subject to croup. Many's the time
I've left ma bed at nights and listened to his breathing. Papa used to
get fair worried with me, I was that anxious-minded. I niver let the
wind blow on him. And now...."
"Poor body!" said Mr. Seton. "It's a sore job for the mothers." He
turned to Mr. Thomson. "Perhaps we might have prayers together before I
go?"
Mr. Thomson brought the Bible, and sat down close beside his wife.
Jessie and Robert and Alick sat together on the sofa, drawn very near
by the thought of the parting on the morrow. Mr. Seton opened the Bible.
"We shall sing the Twenty-third Psalm," he said.
Sing? The Thomsons looked at their minister. Even so must the Hebrews
have looked when asked to sing Zion's songs by the waters of Babylon.
But James Seton, grown wise through a whole campaign of this world's
life and death, knew the healing balm of dear familiar things, and as
he read the words they dropped like oil on a wound:
"The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want.
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green: He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.
My soul He doth restore again;
And me to walk doth make
Within the paths of righteousness
Ev'n for His own name's sake.
Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill:
For Thou art with me; and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still.
* * * * *
Goodness and mercy all my life
Shall surely follow me;
And in God's house for evermore
My dwelling-place shall be."
It is almost the first thing that a Scots child learns, that the Lord
is his Shepherd, that he will not want, that goodness and mercy will
follow him--even through death's dark vale.
_Death's dark vale_, how trippingly we say it when we are children,
fearing "none ill."
Mrs. Thomson's hand sought her husband's.
She had been unutterably miserable, adrift from all her moorings,
bewildered by the awful march of events, even doubting God's wisdom and
love; but as her old minister read her childhood's psalm she remembered
that all through her life the promise had never failed; she remembered
how stars had shone in the darkest night, and how even the barren plain
of sorrow had been curiously beautified with lilies, and she took heart
of comfort.
God, Who counteth empires as the small dust of the balance, and Who
taketh up the isles as a very little thing, was shaking the nations,
and the whole earth trembled. But there are some things that cannot be
shaken, and the pilgrim souls of the world need fear none ill.
Goodness and mercy will follow them through every step of their
pilgrimage. The way may lie by "pastures green," or through the sandy,
thirsty desert, or through the horror and blood and glory of the
battlefield, but in the end there awaits each pilgrim that happy place
whereof it is said "sorrow and sighing shall flee away."
"We shall sing the whole psalm," said Mr. Seton. "The tune is 'French.'"
[Transcriber's note: Italicized text is indicated with _underscores_.]