In the large and irregular township of Gourlay, there are two villages,
Gourlay Centre and Gourlay Corner. The Reverend Mr Inglis lived in the
largest and prettiest of the two, but he preached in both. He preached
also in another part of the town, called the North Gore. A good many of
the Gore people used to attend church in one or other of the two
villages; but some of them would never have heard the Gospel preached
from one year's end to the other, if the minister had not gone to them.
So, though the way was long and the roads rough at the best of seasons,
Mr Inglis went often to hold service in the little red school-house
there. It was not far on in November, but the night was as hard a night
to be out in as though it were the depth of winter, Mrs Inglis thought,
as the wind dashed the rain and sleet against the window out of which
she and her son David were trying to look. They could see nothing,
however, for the night was very dark. Even the village lights were but
dimly visible through the storm, which grew thicker every moment; with
less of rain and more of snow, and the moaning of the wind among the
trees made it impossible for them to hear any other sound.
"I ought to have gone with him, mamma," said the boy, at last.
"Perhaps so, dear. But papa thought it not best, as this is Frank's
last night here."
"It is quite time he were at home, mamma, even though the roads are
bad."
"Yes; he must have been detained. We will not wait any longer. We will
have prayers, and let the children go to bed; he will be very tired when
he gets home."
"How the wind blows! We could not hear the wagon even if he were quite
near. Shall I go to the gate and wait?"
"No, dear, better not. Only be ready with the lantern when he comes."
They stood waiting a little longer, and then David opened the door and
looked out.
"It will be awful on Hardscrabble to-night, mamma," said he, as he came
back to her side.
"Yes," said his mother, with a sigh, and then they were for a long time
silent. She was thinking how the wind would find its way through the
long-worn great coat of her husband, and how unfit he was to bear the
bitter cold. David was thinking how the rain, that had been falling so
heavily all the afternoon, must have gullied out the road down the north
side of Hardscrabble hill, and hoping that old Don would prove himself
sure-footed in the darkness.
"I wish I had gone with him," said he, again.
"Let us go to the children," said his mother.
The room in which the children were gathered was bright with
fire-light--a picture of comfort in contrast with the dark and stormy
night out upon which these two had been looking. The mother shivered a
little as she drew near the fire.
"Sit here, mamma."
"No, sit here; this is the best place." The eagerness was like to grow
to clamour.
"Hush! children," said the mother; "it is time for prayers. We will not
wait for papa, because he will be very tired and cold. No, Letty, you
need not get the books, there has been enough reading for the little
ones to-night. We will sing `Jesus, lover of my soul,' and then David
will read the chapter."
"Oh! yes, mamma, `Jesus, lover;' I like that best," said little Mary,
laying her head down on her mother's shoulder, and her little shrill
voice joined with the others all through, though she could hardly speak
the words plainly.
"That's for papa," said she, when they reached the end of the last line,
"While the tempest still is high."
The children laughed, but the mother kissed her fondly, saying softly:
"Yes, love; but let us sing on to the end."
It was very sweet singing, and very earnest. Even their cousin, Francis
Oswald, whose singing in general was of a very different kind, joined in
it, to its great improvement, and to the delight of the rest. Then
David read the chapter, and then they all knelt down and the mother
prayed.
"Not just with her lips, but with all her heart, as if she really
believed in the good of it," thought Francis Oswald to himself. "Of
course we all believe in it in a general way," he went on thinking, as
he rose from his knees and sat down, not on a chair, but on the rug
before the fire; "of course, we all believe in it, but not just as Aunt
Mary does. She seems to be seeing the hand that holds the thing she is
asking for, and she asks as if she was sure she was going to get it,
too. She hasn't a great deal of what people generally are most anxious
to have," he went on, letting his eyes wander round the fire-lighted
room, "but then she is content with what she has, and that makes all the
difference. `A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things
which he possesses,' she told me the other day, and I suppose she
believes _that_, too, and not just in the general way in which we all
believe the things that are in the Bible. Fancy Aunt Ellen and my
sister Louisa being contented in a room like this!"
It was a very pleasant room, too, the lad thought, though they might not
like it, and though there was not an article in it which was in itself
beautiful. It was a large, square room, with an alcove in which stood a
bed. Before the bed was a piece of carpet, which did not extend very
far over the grey painted floor, and in the corner was a child's cot.
The furniture was all of the plainest, not matching either in style or
in material, but looking very much as if it had been purchased piece by
piece, at different times and places, as the means of the owners had
permitted. The whole was as unlike as possible to the beautifully
furnished room in which the greater part of the boy's evenings had been
passed, but it was a great deal pleasanter in his eyes at the moment.
"I have had jolly times here, better than I shall have at home, unless
they let me read again--which I don't believe they will, though I am so
much better. I am very glad I came. I like Uncle and Aunt Inglis.
There is no `make believe' about them; and the youngsters are not a bad
lot, take them all together."
He sat upon the rug with his hands clasped behind his head, letting his
thoughts run upon many things. David had gone to the window, and was
gazing out into the stormy night again, and his brother Jem sat with his
face bent close over his book, reading by the fire-light. Not a word
was spoken for a long time. Violet laid the sleeping little Mary in her
cot, and when her mother came in, she said:
"Don't you think, mamma, that perhaps papa may stay all night at the
Gore? It is so stormy."
"No, dear; he said he would be home. Something must have detained him
longer than usual. What are you thinking about so earnestly Francis?"
"Since you went up-stairs? Oh! about lots of things. About the chapter
David was reading, for one thing."
The chapter David had read was the tenth of Numbers--one not very likely
to interest young readers, except the last few verses. It was the way
with the Inglises, at morning and evening worship, to read straight on
through the Bible, not passing over any chapter because it might not
seem very interesting or instructive. At other times they might pick
and choose the chapters they read and talked about, but at worship time
they read straight on, and in so doing fell on many a word of wonderful
beauty, which the pickers and choosers might easily overlook. The last
few verses of the chapter read that night were one of these, and quite
new to one of the listeners, at least. It was Moses' invitation to
Hobab to go with the Lord's people to the promised land.
"I wonder whether the old chap went," said Frank, after a pause. "What
are you laughing at, Jem?"
"He thinks that is not a respectful way to speak of a Bible person, I
suppose," said Violet.
"About the chapter David was reading," said Jem, mimicking his cousin's
tone and manner. "That is for mamma. You don't expect me to swallow
that. Give mamma the result of your meditations, like a good boy."
"I said I was thinking of the chapter, for one thing," said Frank, not
at all angry, though he reddened a little. "I was thinking, besides,
whether that was a proper book for you to be reading to-night, `The
Swiss Family,' is it not?"
"Sold," cried Jem, triumphantly; "it is the `Pilgrim's Progress.'"
"You have read that before," said Violet.
"Lots of times. It will bear it. But what about Hobab, Frank? Much
you care about the old chap, don't you? Davie, come here and listen to
Frank."
"If you would only give Frank a chance to speak," said his mother,
smiling.
"Did Hobab go, do you think, aunt?" asked Frank.
"He refused to go," said Jem. "Don't you remember he said, `I will not
go, but I will depart into my own land, and to my kindred?'"
"Yes; but that was before Moses said, `Thou mayest be to us instead of
eyes, forasmuch as thou knowest how we are to encamp in this
wilderness.' You see, he had a chance of some adventures; that might
tempt him. Do you think he went, aunt?"
"I cannot tell; afterwards we hear of Heber the Kenite, who was of the
children of Hobab; and his wife took the part of the Israelites, when
she slew Sisera. But whether he went with the people at that time, we
do not hear. Very likely he did. I can understand how the people's
need of him as a guide, or a guard, might have seemed to him a better
reason for casting in his lot with the people, than even the promise
that Moses gave him, `Come with us and we will do thee good.'"
"That is to say, mamma, he would rather have a chance to help others,
than the prospect of a good time for himself. That is not the way with
people generally," said Jem, shaking his head gravely.
"It is not said that it was the way with Hobab," said his mother; "but I
am inclined to think, with Francis, that perhaps it might have been so."
"He must have been a brave man and a good man, or Moses would not have
wanted him," said David.
"And if he went for the sake of a home in the promised land, he must
have been disappointed. He did not get there for forty years, if he got
there at all," said Jem.
"But if he went for the fighting he may have had a good time in the
wilderness, for there must have been many alarms, and a battle now and
then," said Frank.
"But, mamma," said Violet, earnestly, "they had the pillar of cloud, and
the pillar of fire, and the Angel of the Covenant going before. Why
should we suppose they needed the help of Hobab?"
"God helps them that help themselves, Letty, dear," said Jem.
"Gently, Jem," said his mother; "speak reverently, my boy. Yes, Letty,
they were miraculously guarded and guided; but we do not see that they
were allowed to fold their hands and do nothing. God fought for them,
and they fought for themselves. And as for Hobab, he must have been a
good and brave man, as David says, and so the chances are he went with
the people, thinking less of what he could get for himself than of what
he could do for others, as is the way with good and brave men."
"Like the people we read about in books," said Jem.
"Yes; and like some of the people we meet in real life," said his
mother, smiling. "The men who even in the eyes of the world are the
best and bravest, are the men who have forgotten themselves and their
own transitory interests to live or die for the sake of others."
"Like Moses, when he pleaded that the people might not be destroyed,
even though the Lord said He would make him the father of a great
nation," said David.
"Like Paul," said Violet, "who `counted not his life dear to him,' and
who was willing `to spend and be spent,' though the more abundantly he
loved the people, the less he was loved."
"Like Leonidas with his three hundred heroes."
"Like Curtius, who leapt into the gulf."
"Like William Tell and John Howard."
"Like a great many missionaries," said Violet. And a great many more
were mentioned.
"But, aunt," said Frank, "you said like a great many people we meet in
real life. I don't believe I know a single man like that--one who
forgets himself, and lives for others. Tell me one."
"Papa," said David, softly. His mother smiled.
"It seems to me that all true Christians ought to be like that--men who
do not live to please themselves--who desire most of all to do God's
work among their fellow-men," said she, gravely.
Frank drew a long breath.
"Then I am afraid I don't know many Christians, Aunt Inglis."
"My boy, perhaps you are not a good judge, and I daresay you have never
thought much about the matter."
"No, I have not. But now that I do think of it, I cannot call to mind
any one--scarcely any one who would answer to that description. It
seems to me that most men seem to mind their own interests pretty well.
There is Uncle Inglis, to be sure--But then he is a minister, and doing
good is his business, you know."
"Frank," said Jem, as his mother did not answer immediately, "do you
know that papa might have been a banker, and a rich man now, like your
father? His uncle offered him the chance first, but he had made up his
mind to be a minister. His uncle was very angry, wasn't he, mamma?"
But his mother had no wish that the conversation should be pursued in
that direction, so she said, "Yes, Frank, it is his business to do God's
work in the world, but no more than it is yours and mine, in one sense."
"Mine!" echoed Frank, with a whistle of astonishment, which Jem echoed.
"Yours, surely, my dear boy, and yours, Jem; and your responsibility is
not lessened by the fact that you may be conscious that you are refusing
that personal consecration which alone can fit you for God's service, or
make such service acceptable."
There was nothing answered to this, and Mrs Inglis added, "And being
consecrated to God's service, we do His work well, when we do well the
duty he has appointed us, however humble it may be."
"But to come back to Hobab, mamma," said Jem, in a little while. "After
all, do you really think it was a desire to do God's work in helping the
people that made him go with them, if he did go? Perhaps he thought of
the fighting and the possible adventures, as Frank says."
"We have no means of knowing, except that it does not seem to have been
so much with the thought of his being a protector, that Moses asked him,
as of his being a guide. `Thou mayest be to us instead of eyes,' said
he."
"Yes," said Jem, hesitatingly, "I suppose so; but it must have been
something to him to think of leading such a host."
"But he would not have led the host," said David. "Yet it must have
been a grand thing to follow such a leader as Moses."
"Aunt Mary," said Frank, "if there is something for us all to do in the
world, as you say, I, for one, would much rather think of it as a place
to fight in than to work in."
"The same here," said Jem.
"Well, so it is," said Mrs Inglis.
"`In the world's broad field of battle.' Don't you remember, Davie?"
"Yes, I remember, `Be a hero in the strife,'" said David. "And Paul
bids Timothy, `Fight the good fight of faith;' and in another place he
says, `That thou mayest war a good warfare;' which is better authority
than your poet, Violet."
"Yes, and when he was an old man--Paul, I mean--he said, `I have fought
the good fight; I have finished the course; I have kept the faith.'"
"And is there not something about armour?" asked Frank, who was not very
sure of his Bible knowledge.
"Yes. `Put ye on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand
in the evil day, and having done all to stand.' That is Paul, too."
"Yes," said Jem, slowly. "That was to be put on against the wiles of
the devil. `Ye wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against
principalities and powers; against the rulers of the darkness of this
world; against spiritual wickedness in high places.'"
Frank uttered an exclamation.
"They needed armour, I think."
"Not more than we do now, my boy. We have the same enemies," said his
aunt.
It was her way at such times to let the conversation flow on according
to the pleasure of the young people, only she put in a word now and then
as it was needed for counsel or restraint.
"It sounds awful, don't it?" said Jem, who was always amused when his
cousin received as a new thought something that the rest of them had
been familiar with all their lives. "And that isn't all. What is that
about `the law in our members warring against the law in our minds?'
What with one thing and what with another, you stand a chance to get
fighting enough."
His mother put her hand on his arm.
"But, mamma, this thought of life's being a battle-field, makes one
afraid," said Violet.
"It need not, dear, one who takes `the whole armour.'"
"But what is the armour?" said Frank. "I don't understand."
Violet opened the Bible and read that part of the sixth chapter of
Ephesians where the armour is spoken of; and the boys discussed it piece
by piece. David, who had scarcely spoken before, had most to say now,
telling the others about the weapons and the armour used by the
ancients, and about their mode of carrying on war. For David had been
reading Latin and Greek with his father for a good while, and the rest
listened with interest. They wandered away from the subject sometimes,
or rather in the interest with which they discussed the deeds of ancient
warriors, they were in danger of forgetting "the whole armour," and the
weapons which are "not carnal but spiritual," and the warfare they were
to wage by means of these, till a word from the mother brought them back
again.
"`And having done all to stand,'" said Frank, in a pause that came in a
little while. "That does not seem much to do."
"It is a great deal," said his aunt. "The army that encamps on the
battle-field after the battle, is the conquering army. To stand is
victory."
"Yes, I see," said Frank.
"It means victory to stand firm when an assault is made, but they who
would be `good soldiers of Jesus Christ' have more to do than that. His
banner must be carried to wave over all the nations. The world must be
subdued to Him. And when it is said, `Be strong,' it means be strong
for conquest as well as for defence."
And then, seeing that the boys were moved to eager listening, Mrs
Inglis put aside her anxious thoughts about her husband, and went on to
speak of the honour and glory of being permitted to fight under Him who
was promised as a "Leader and Commander to the people"--and in such a
cause--that the powers of darkness might be overthrown, the slaves of
sin set free, and His throne set up who is to "reign in righteousness."
Though the conflict might be fierce and long, how certain the victory!
how high the reward at last! Yes, and before the last. One had not to
wait till the last. How wonderful it was, she said, and how sweet to
believe, that not one in all the numberless host, who were "enduring
hardness as good soldiers of Jesus Christ," but was known to Him, and
beloved by Him; known even by name; watched over and cared for; guided
and strengthened; never forgotten, never overlooked. "Safe through
life, victorious in death, through Him that loved them, and gave Himself
for them," added the mother, and then she paused, partly because these
wonderful thoughts, and the eager eyes fastened on hers, made it not
easy to continue, and, partly, because she would fain put into as few
words as might be, her hopes and desires for the lad who was going so
soon to leave them.
"Francis," said she, softly, "would it not be something grand to be one
of such an army, fighting under such a leader?"
"Yes, Aunt Mary, if one only knew the way."
"One can always offer one's self as His soldier."
"Yes, if one is fit."
"But one can never make one's self fit. _He_ undertakes all that.
Offer yourself to be His. Give yourself to Him. He will appoint you
your place in the host, and make you strong to stand, patient to endure,
valiant to fight, and He will ensure the victory, and give you the
triumph at the end. Think of all this, Francis, dear boy! It is a
grand thing to be a soldier of the Lord."
"Yes, Aunt Mary," said Frank, gravely. Then they were all silent for a
long time. Indeed, there was not a word spoken till Mr Inglis' voice
was heard at the door. Jem ran out to hold old Don till David brought
the lantern, and both boys spent a good while in making the horse
comfortable after his long pull over the hills. Mrs Inglis went to the
other room to attend to her husband, and Violet followed her, and Frank
was left alone to think over the words that he had heard. He did think
of them seriously, then and afterwards.--He never quite forgot them,
though he did not act upon them and offer himself for a "good soldier of
Jesus Christ" for a long time after that.
In a little while Mr Inglis came in and sat down beside him, but after
the first minute or two he was quite silent, busy with his own thoughts
it seemed, and Frank said nothing either, but wondered what his uncle's
thoughts might be. The discomfort of cold and wind and of the long
drive through sleet and rain, had nothing to do with them, the boy said
to himself, as, with his hand screening his weak eyes from the light and
heat of the fire, he watched his changing face. It was a very good face
to watch. It was thin and pale, and the hair had worn away a little
from the temples, making the prominent forehead almost too high and
broad for the cheeks beneath. Its expression was usually grave and
thoughtful, but to-night there was a brightness on it which fixed the
boy's gaze; and the eyes, too often sunken and heavy after a day of
labour, shone to-night with a light at once so peaceful and so
triumphant, that Frank could not but wonder. In a little while Violet
came in, and she saw it too.
"Has anything happened, papa?" asked she, softly.
He turned his eyes to her, but did not speak. He had heard her voice
but not her question, and she did not repeat it, but came and sat down
on a low stool at his feet.
"Are you very tired, papa?" she asked at last.
"Not more so than usual. Indeed, I have hardly thought of it to-night,
or of the cold and the sleet and the long drive, that have moved my
little girl's compassion. But it is pleasant to be safe home again, and
to find all well."
"But what kept you so long, papa?" said Jem, coming in with the lantern
in his hand. "Was it Don's fault? Didn't he do his duty, poor old
Don?"
"No. I was sent for to see Timothy Bent. That was what detained me so
long."
"Poor old Tim!" said Violet, softly.
"`Poor old Tim' no longer, Violet, my child. It is well with Timothy
Bent now, beyond all fear."
"Has he gone, papa?"
"Yes, he is safe home at last. The long struggle is over, and he has
gotten the victory."
The boys looked at one another, thinking of the words that had been
spoken to them a little while ago.
"It is Timothy Bent, mamma," said Violet, as her mother came in. "He is
dead."
"Is he gone?" said her mother, sitting down. "Did he suffer much? Were
you with him at the last?"
"Yes, he suffered," said Mr Inglis, a momentary look of pain passing
over his face. "But that is all past now forever."
"Did he know you?"
"Yes, he knew me. He spoke of the time when I took him up at the
corner, and brought him home to you. He said that was the beginning."
There was a pause.
"The beginning of what?" whispered Frank to Violet.
"The beginning of a new life to poor Tim," said Violet.
"The beginning of the glory revealed to him to-day," said Mr Inglis.
"It is wonderful! I cannot tell you how wonderful it seemed to me
to-night to see him as he looked on the face of death. We speak about
needing faith in walking through dark places, but we need it more to
help us to bear the light that shines on the death-bed of a saved and
sanctified sinner. How glorious! How wonderful! For a moment it
seemed to me beyond belief. Now with us in that poor room, sick and
suffering, and sometimes afraid, even; then, in the twinkling of an eye,
in the very presence of his Lord--and like him--with joy unspeakable and
full of glory! Does it not seem almost past belief? `Thanks be to God,
who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!'"
There was silence for a good while after that, and then David first, and
afterwards the others, answered the mother's look by rising and saying
softly, "Good-night," and then they went away.