"Papa does not feel it to-night," said Jem, as they went up-stairs; "but
he'll be tired enough to-morrow, when he has time to think about it.
And so poor old Tim has gone!"
"`Poor old Tim, no longer,' as your father said," said Frank, gravely.
"It does seem almost beyond belief, doesn't it?"
"What?" asked Jem.
But Frank did not answer him directly.
"I wonder what battles old Tim had to fight," said he. "Your father
said he had gotten the victory."
"Oh! just the battles that other people have to fight with the world,
the flesh, and the devil, and a hard time he has had, too, poor old
chap," said Jem.
"Jem," said David, "I think old Tim Bent was the very happiest old man
we knew."
"Well, perhaps he was, after a fashion; but I am sure he had trouble, of
one kind or another--sickness, poverty, and his people not very kind to
him--tired of him, at any rate. However, that don't matter to him now."
"He has gotten the victory," repeated Frank. The words seemed to have a
charm for him. "It is wonderful, isn't it?"
All this was said as the boys were undressing to go to bed. There were
two beds in the room they occupied, the brothers had one, and Frank had
the other. After the lamp was blown out, David reminded the others that
they must be up early in the morning, and that the sooner they were
asleep, the readier they would be to rise when the right time came; so
there was nothing said for a good while. Then Frank spoke:
"What was all that you said about your father's being a banker and a
rich man? Are you asleep already, Jem?"
Jem had been very near it.
"Who? Papa? Oh! yes, he might have been; but you see he chose `the
better part.' I sometimes wonder whether he's ever sorry."
"Jem," said David, "it's not right--to speak in that way, I mean. And
as for papa's being sorry--not to-night, at any rate," added David, with
a sound that was like a sob in his voice.
"And why not to-night? Ah! I understand. It was through him that old
Tim got the victory;" and both the boys were surprised to see him
suddenly sit up in bed in the dark; and after a long silence he
repeated, as if to himself, "I should think not to-night, indeed!" and
then he lay down again.
"Papa has never been sorry--never for a single moment," said David. "He
has helped a great many besides old Tim to win the victory. And
besides, I dare say, he has had as much real enjoyment in his life as if
he had been a rich man like your father. He is not sorry, at any rate,
nor mamma."
"Oh! that is all very well to say," interposed Jem; "I dare say he is
not sorry that he is a minister, but I say it is a shame that ministers
should always be poor men--as they always are!"
"Oh! well. People can't have everything," said David.
"You've got to be very contented, all at once," said Jem, laughing.
"You have said as much about it as ever I have, and more, too. Don't
you remember when the Hunters went away to M--, to school, and you and
Violet couldn't go? You wanted to go, didn't you?"
"Nonsense, Jem. I never thought of such a thing seriously. Why, it
would have taken more than the whole of papa's salary to send us both!"
"But that is just what I said. Why should not papa be able to send you,
as well as Ned Hunter's father to send him?"
"It comes to the same thing," said David, loftily. "I know more Latin
and Greek, too, than Ned Hunter, though he has been at M--; and as for
Violet--people can't have everything."
"And you have grown humble as well as contented, it seems," said Jem;
"just as if you didn't care! You'll care when mamma has to send Debby
away, and keep Violet at home from school, because she can't get papa a
new great coat, and pay Debby's wages, too. You may say what you like,
but I wish I were rich; and I mean to be, one of these days."
"But it is all nonsense about Debby, Jem. However, mamma would not wish
us to discuss it now, and we had better go to sleep."
But, though there was nothing more said, none of them went to sleep very
soon, and they all had a great many serious thoughts as they lay in
silence in the dark. The brothers had often had serious thoughts
before; but to Francis they came almost for the first time--or rather,
for the first time he found it difficult to put them away. He had been
brought up very differently from David and Jem. He was the son of a
rich man, and the claims of business had left their father little time
to devote to the instruction of his children. The claims of society had
left as little to his mother--she was dead now--and, except at church on
Sundays, he had rarely heard a word to remind him that there was
anything in the world of more importance than the getting of wealth and
the pursuit of pleasure, till he came to visit the Inglises.
He had been ill before that, and threatened with serious trouble in his
eyes, and the doctor had said that he must have change of air, and that
he must not be allowed to look at a book for a long time. Mr Inglis
had been at his father's house about that time, and had asked him to let
the boy go home with him, to make the acquaintance of his young people,
and he had been very glad to let him go. Mr Inglis was not Frank's
uncle, though he called him so; he was only his father's cousin, and
there had never been any intimacy between the families, so Francis had
been a stranger to them all before he came to Gourlay. But he soon made
friends with them all. The simple, natural way of life in the
minister's house suited him well, and his visit had been lengthened out
to four months, instead of four weeks, as was at first intended; and
now, as he lay thinking, he was saying to himself that he was very sorry
to go.
This last night he seemed to see more clearly than ever he had seen
before what made the difference between their manner of life here in his
uncle's house, and the life they lived at home. It was a difference
altogether in favour of their life here, though here they were poor, and
at home they were rich. The difference went deeper than outward
circumstances, and must reach beyond them--beyond all the chances and
changes time might bring.
And then he thought about all his aunt had said about "the good fight"
and "the whole armour," the great Leader, and the sure victory at last.
But strangely enough, and foolishly enough it seemed to him, his very
last thought was about Debby's going away; and before he had
satisfactorily computed the number of weeks' wages it would take to make
the sum which would probably be enough to purchase an overcoat, he fell
asleep, and carried on the computation in his dreams.
The next morning was not a very pleasant one to travel in. It was
cloudy and cold, and the ground was covered with snow. Mr Inglis had
intended to take Frank on the first stage of his journey--that was to
the railway station in D--, a town eleven miles away. But, as Jem had
foretold, the weariness which he had scarcely felt when he first came
home, was all the worse now because of that, and he had taken cold
besides; so David and Jem were to take his place in conveying their
cousin on the journey.
The good-byes were all said, and the boys set off. They did not mind
the cold, or the snow, or the threatening rain, but were well pleased
with the prospect of a few more hours together. The roads were bad, and
their progress was slow; but that mattered little, as they had the day
before them, and plenty to say to one another to pass the time. They
discussed trees and fruits, and things in general, after the fashion of
boys, and then the last stories of hunters and trappers they had read;
and in some way which it would not be easy to trace, they came round to
Hobab and the battles he might have fought, and then to "the whole
armour" and the warfare in which it was intended to aid them who wore
it.
"I wish I understood it all better," said Frank. "I suppose the Bible
means something when it speaks about the warfare, and the armour, and
all that; but then one would not think so, just to see the way people
live, and good people too."
"One can't tell by just seeing the outside of people's lives," said
David.
"The outside of people's lives!" repeated Frank. "Why, what else can we
see?"
"I mean you are thinking of something quite different from mamma's idea
of battles, and warfare, and all that. She was not speaking about
anything that all the world, or people generally, would admire, or even
see."
"But you spoke of your father, David, and I can understand how he in a
certain way may be said to be fighting the battles of the Lord. He
preaches against sin, and bad people oppose him, and he stands up for
his Master; and when he does good to people, wins them over to God's
side, he may be said to make a conquest--to gain a victory, as he did
when he rescued poor Tim. I can understand why he should be called a
soldier, and how his way of doing things may be called fighting; and
that may be the way with ministers generally, I suppose; but as for
other people, they ought to be the same, as the Bible says so; but I
don't see that they are, for all that. Do you, Jem?"
"It depends on what you mean by fighting," said Jem.
"But whatever it is, it is something that can be seen," said Frank
impatiently, "and what I mean is that I don't see it."
"But then the people you know most about mayn't be among the fighting
men, even if you were a good judge of fighting," said Jem. "Your eyes
mayn't be the best, you know."
"Well, lend me your eyes, then, and don't mind the people I know. Take
the people _you_ know, your father's right hand men, who ought to be
among the soldiers, if there are any. There is Mr Strong and old Penn,
and the man who draws the mill logs. And all the people, women as well
as men, ought to be wearing the armour and using the weapons. There is
your friend, Miss Bethia, Davie; is she a warrior, too?"
"Aunt Bethia certainly is," said Jem decidedly. "She is not afraid of--
well, of principalities and powers, I tell _you_. Don't she fight
great--eh, Davie?"
"Aunt Bethia is a very good woman, and it depends on what you call
fighting," said David, dubiously.
"Yes, Miss Bethia is a soldier. And as for old Mr Penn, I've seen him
fight very hard to keep awake in meeting," said Jem, laughing.
"It is easy enough to make fun of it, but Aunt Mary was in earnest.
Don't you know about it, Davie?"
"About these people fighting, do you mean? Well, I once heard papa say
that Mr Strong's life was for many years a constant fight. And he
said, too, that he was using the right weapons, and that he would
doubtless win the victory. So you see there is one of them a soldier,"
said David.
"It must be a different kind of warfare from your father's," said Frank.
"I wonder what Mr Strong fights for?"
"But I think he is fighting the very same battle, only in a different
way."
"Well," said Frank, "what about it?"
"Oh! I don't know that I can tell much about it. It used to be a very
bad neighbourhood where old Strong lives, and the neighbours used to
bother him awfully. And that wasn't the worst. He has a very bad
temper naturally, and he got into trouble all round when he first lived
there. And one day he heard some of them laughing at him and his
religion, saying there was no difference between Christians and other
people. And they didn't stop there, but scoffed at the name of our
Lord, and at the Bible. It all happened down at Hunt's Mills, and they
didn't know that Mr Strong was there; and when he rose up from the
corner where he had been sitting all the time, and came forward among
them, they were astonished, and thought they were going to have great
fun. But they didn't that time. Mr Hunt told papa all about it. He
just looked at them and said: `God forgive you for speaking lightly that
blessed name, and God forgive me for giving you the occasion.' And then
he just turned and walked away.
"After that it didn't matter what they said or did to him, he wouldn't
take his own part. They say that for more than a year he didn't speak a
word to a man in the neighbourhood where he lives; he couldn't trust
himself. But he got a chance to do a good turn once in a while, that
told better than words. Once he turned some stray cattle out of John
Jarvis's grain, and built up the fences when there was no one at
Jarvis's house to do it. That wouldn't have been much--any good
neighbour would have done as much as that, you know. But it had
happened the day before that the Jarvis's boys had left down the bars of
his back pasture, and all his young cattle had passed most of the night
in his own wheat. It was not a place that the boys needed to go to, and
it looked very much as if they had done it on purpose. They must have
felt mean when they came home and saw old Strong building up their
fence."
Then Jem took up the word.
"And once, some of those fellows took off the nut from his wagon, as it
was standing at the store door, and the wheel came off just as he was
going down the hill by the bridge; and if it hadn't been that his old
Jerry is as steady as a rock the old man would have been pitched into
the river."
"The village people took that up, and wanted him to prosecute them. But
he wouldn't," said David. "It was a regular case of `turning the other
cheek.' Everybody wondered, knowing old Strong's temper."
"And once they sheared old Jerry's mane and tail," said Jem. "And they
say old Strong cried like a baby when he saw him. He wouldn't have
anything done about it; but he said he'd be even with them some time.
And he was even with one of them. One day when he was in the hayfield,
Job Steele came running over to tell him that his little girl had fallen
in the barn and broken her arm and hurt her head, and he begged him to
let him have Jerry to ride, for the doctor. Then Mr Strong looked him
right in the face, and said he, `No, I can't let you have him. You
don't know how to treat dumb beasts. I'll go myself for the doctor.'
And sure enough, he unyoked his oxen from the cart, though it was
Saturday and looked like rain, and his hay was all ready to be taken in,
and went to the pasture for Jerry, and rode to the village himself, and
let the doctor have his horse, and walked home."
"And did he know that it was Job Steele who had ill-treated his horse,"
asked Frank.
"He never said so to anybody; and Job never acknowledged it. But other
people said so, and Job once told papa that Mr Strong's way of doing
`good for evil,' was the first thing that made him think that there must
be something in religion; and Mr Steele is a changed character now."
"And how did it all end with Mr Strong?" asked Frank, much interested.
"Oh, it isn't ended yet," said David. "Mr Strong is fighting against
his bad temper as hard as ever. It has ended as far as his trouble with
his neighbours is concerned. He made them see there is something in
religion more than they thought, as Job Steele said, and there is no
more trouble among them. But the old man must have had some pretty hard
battles with himself, before it came to that."
"And so old Mr Strong is a soldier, anyway," said Frank.
"Yes, and a conqueror," said Jem. "Don't you remember, `He that ruleth
his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.'"
"Yes," said David, thoughtfully. "Mr Strong is a soldier, and, Frank,
he is fighting the very same battle that papa is fighting--for the
honour of Christ. It is that they are all fighting for in one way or
other. It is that that makes it warring a good warfare, you know."
"No," said Frank, "I am afraid I don't know much about it. Tell me,
Davie."
"Oh, I don't pretend to know much about it, either," said David, with a
look at Jem. But Jem shrugged his shoulders.
"You should have asked papa," said he.
"Go ahead, Davie," said Frank.
"Well," said David, with some hesitation, "it is supposed that all
Christians are like their masters--more or less. He was `holy,
harmless, undefiled, and separate from sinners;' and that is not an easy
thing for any man or boy to be, and so all have to fight with
themselves, and the world--"
"And with the devil," said Jem. "The principalities and powers, you
know."
"I suppose so, but we don't know much about that, only the end of it all
is that they may become like Christ--so that they may make Him known to
the world."
"I've heard papa speak about it," said Jem.
"Yes, it is one of papa's favourite themes. I have often heard him,"
said David.
And then they went back to the discussion of old Mr Strong again, and
then of others; and there was scarcely one of their acquaintances but
they discussed in the new character of a soldier. Sometimes they went
quite away from the subject, and sometimes they said very foolish
things. It is not to be supposed that boys like them would judge very
justly, or discuss very charitably the character of people with the
outside of whose lives they were alone acquainted, and besides, as David
at last gravely acknowledged they could not understand all that was
implied in "warring a good warfare," not being soldiers themselves.
There was silence for a good while after this, and then they went on
again, saying a good many things that could hardly be called wise; but
the conclusion to which they came was right and true in the main. It
was against `the world, the flesh, and the devil' that Christians were
to fight, and victory meant to become like Christ, and to win over
others to be like him, too. That was victory here, and afterwards there
would be glory, and the crown of righteousness that Paul spoke about, in
Heaven. They were all very grave by the time they got thus far.
"Nothing else in the world seems worth while in comparison, when one
really thinks about it," said David.
"The only wonder is that there are not more soldiers, and that they are
not more in earnest," said Frank.
"All may be soldiers of Christ Jesus," said David, softly.
"Even boys?" said Frank.
"Papa says so. Boys like you and me and Jem. Papa was a soldier in the
army of the Lord, long before he was my age. He told me all about it
one day," said David, with a break in his voice. "And he said the
sooner we enlist the better `soldiers' we would be, and the more we
would accomplish for Him."
"Yes," said Frank, "if one only knew the way."
"It is all in the Bible, Frank," said David.
"Yes, I suppose so. It is a wonder you have not become a `soldier' long
ago, David. How glad your mother would be. It is the _only_ thing, she
thinks."
All this last was said while Jem had gone to ask at a farm-house door
whether they had not taken the wrong turning up above, and nothing more
was said when he came back. Indeed, there was not time. The next turn
brought the station in sight, and they saw the train and heard the
whistle, and had only time for hurried good-byes before Frank took his
place. Jem and Davie stood for a little while looking after the train
that bore their friend away so rapidly, and then they turned rather
disconsolately to retrace their steps over the muddy roads in the
direction of home.