If any one had suddenly asked David Inglis to tell him what had been the
very happiest moments during all the fourteen happy years of his life,
he would probably have gone back in thought to the day, when on the
banks of a clear stream among the hills, his very first success as a
fisherman had come to him. Or the remembrance of certain signal
triumphs on the cricket ground, or at base-ball, might have come to his
mind. But that would only have been in answer to a sudden question. If
he had had time to think, he would have said, and truly too, that the
very happiest hours of all his life had been passed in their old wagon
at his father's side.
So when he found, next day, that instead of sitting down to his lessons
in a corner of the study, he was to drive his father over to the Bass
Neighbourhood, to attend old Mr Bent's funeral, you may be sure he was
well pleased. Not that he objected to books as a general thing, or that
any part of his pleasure rose out of a good chance to shirk his daily
lessons. Quite the contrary. Books and lessons were by no means
ignored between him and his father at such times. Almost oftener than
anything else, books and lessons came into their discussions. But a
lesson from a printed page, not very well understood, and learned on
compulsion, is one thing, and seldom a pleasant thing to any one
concerned. But lessons explained and illustrated by his father as they
went slowly through fields and woods together, were very pleasant
matters to David. Even the Latin Grammar, over whose tedious pages so
many boys have yawned and trifled from generation to generation, even
declensions and conjugations, and rules of Syntax, and other matters
which, as a general thing, are such hopeless mysteries to boys of nine
or ten, were made matters of interest to David when his father took them
in hand.
And when it came to other subjects--subjects to be examined and
illustrated by means of the natural objects around them--the rocks and
stones, the grass and flowers and trees--the worms that creep, and the
birds that fly--the treasures of the earth beneath, and the wonders of
the heavens above, there was no thought of lesson or labour then. It
was pure pleasure to David, and to his father, too. Yes, David was a
very happy boy at such times, and knew it--a circumstance which does not
always accompany to a boy, the possession of such opportunities and
advantages. For David firmly believed in his father as one of the best
and wisest of living men. This may have been a mistake on his part,
but, if so, his father being, what he was--a good man and true--it was a
mistake which did him no harm but good, and it was a mistake which has
never been set right to David.
So that day was a day to be marked with a white stone. Don got a more
energetic rubbing down, and an additional measure of oats, on the
strength of the pleasant prospect, for David was groom, and gardener,
and errand boy, and whatever else his mother needed him to be when his
younger brothers were at school, and all the arrangements about his
father's going away might be safely trusted to him.
It was a beautiful day. The only traces that remained of the premature
winter that had threatened them on Sunday night, were the long stretches
of snow that lingered under the shadows of the wayside trees and fences,
and lay in patches in the hollows of the broken pastures. The leafless
landscape, so dreary under falling rain or leaden skies, shone and
sparkled under sunshine so warm and bright, that David thought the day
as fine as a day could be, and gave no regrets to the faded glories of
summer. They set out early, for though the day was fine, the roads were
not, and even with the best of roads, old Don took his frequent journeys
in a leisurely and dignified manner, which neither the minister nor
David cared to interfere with unless they were pressed for time.
They were not to go to the house where old Tim had died, for that was on
another road, and farther away than the red school-house where the
funeral services were to be held, but the school-house was full seven
miles from home, and they would need nearly two full hours for the
journey.
David soon found that these hours must be passed in silence. His father
was occupied with his own thoughts, and by many signs which his son had
learned to interpret, it was evident that he was thinking over what he
was going to say to the people that day, and not a word was spoken till
they came in sight of the school-house. On both sides of the road along
the fences, many horses and wagons were fastened, and a great many
people were standing in groups about the door.
"There will be a great crowd to hear you to-day, papa," said David, as
they drew near.
"Yes," said his father. "God give me a word to speak to some poor soul
to-day."
He went in and the people flocked in after him, and when David, having
tied old Don to his place by the fence, went in also, it was all that he
could do to find standing-room for a while, there were so many there.
The plain coffin, without pall or covering, was placed before the desk
upon a table, and seated near to it were the few relatives of the dead.
Next to them were a number of very old people some of whom could look
back over all old Tim's life, then the friends and neighbours generally,
all very grave and attentive as Mr Inglis rose to speak. There were
some there who probably had not heard the Gospel preached for years,
some who, except on such an occasion, had not for all that time, heard
the Bible read or a prayer offered.
"No wonder that papa wishes to have just the right word to say to them,"
thought David, as he looked round on them all.
And he had just the right word for them, and for David, too, and for all
the world. For he set before them "The glorious Gospel of the blessed
God." He said little of the dead, only that he was a sinner saved by
grace; and then he set forth the glory of that wondrous grace to the
living. "Victory through our Lord Jesus Christ" was his theme--victory
over sin, the world, death. The Gospel of Christ full, free,
sufficient, was clearly set before the people that day.
David listened, as he was rather apt to listen to his father's sermons,
not for himself but for others. He heard all that was said, and laid it
up in his mind, that he might be able to tell it to his mother at home,
as she generally expected him to do; but, at the same time, he was
thinking how all that his father was saying would seem to this or the
other man or woman in the congregation who did not often hear his voice.
There was less wonder that he should do that to-day because there were
a great many strangers there, and for the most part they were listening
attentively. In the little pauses that came now and then, "you might
have heard a pin fall," David said afterwards to his mother, and the boy
felt proud that his father should speak so well, and that all the people
should be compelled, as it were, to listen so earnestly. This was only
for a minute, however. He was ashamed of the thought almost
immediately. For what did it matter whether the people thought well of
his father or not? And then he tried to make himself believe that he
was only glad for their sakes, that, listening so attentively to truths
so important, they might get good. And then he thought what a grand
thing it would be, and how happy it would make his father, if from this
very day some of these careless people should begin a new life, and if
the old school-house should be crowded every Sunday to hear his words.
But it never came into his mind until the very end, that all that his
father was saying was just as much for him as for any one there.
All through the sermon ran the idea of the Christian life being a
warfare, and the Christian a soldier, fighting under a Divine Leader;
and when, at the close, he spoke of the victory, how certain it was, how
complete, how satisfying beyond all that heart of man could conceive,
David forgot to wonder what all the people might be thinking, so grand
and wonderful it seemed. So when a word or two was added about the
utter loss and ruin that must overtake all who were not on the side of
the Divine Leader, in the great army which He led, it touched him, too.
It was like a nail fastened in a sure place. It could not be pushed
aside, or shaken off, as had happened so many times when fitting words
had been spoken in his hearing before. They were for him, too, as well
as for the rest--more than for the rest, he said to himself, and they
would not be put away.
As was the custom in these country places at that time, there was a long
pause after the sermon was over. The coffin was opened, and one after
another went up and looked on the face of the dead, and it seemed to
David that they would never be done with it, and he rose at last and
went out of doors to wait for his father there. It was but a few steps
to the grave-yard, and the people stood only a minute or two round the
open grave. Then there was a prayer offered, and poor old Tim was left
to his rest.
"`Poor old Tim,' no longer," said David to himself, when they were
fairly started on their homeward way again. "Happy Tim, I ought to say.
I wonder what he is doing now! He is one of `the spirits of just men
made perfect' by this time. I wonder how it seems to him up there,"
said David, looking far up into the blue above him. "It does seem past
belief. I can't think of him but as a lame old man with a crutch, and
there he is, up among the best of them, singing with a will, as he used
to sing here, only with no drawbacks. It _is_ wonderful. Think of old
Tim singing with John, and Paul, and with King David himself. It is
queer to think of it!"
He had a good while to think of it, for his father was silent and
preoccupied still. It had often happened before, that his father being
busy with his own thoughts, David had to be content with silence, and
with such amusement as he could get from the sights and sounds about
him, and he had never found that very hard. But he had not been so much
with him of late because of Frank's visit, and he had so looked forward
to the enjoyment he was to have to-day, that he could not help feeling a
little aggrieved when half their way home had been accomplished without
a word.
"Papa," said he, at last, "I wish Frank had been here to-day--to hear
your sermon, I mean."
"I did not know that Frank had an especial taste for sermons," said his
father, smiling.
"Well, no, I don't think he has; but he would have liked that one--about
the Christian warfare, because we have been speaking about it lately."
And then he went on to tell about the reading on Sunday night, and about
Hobab and all that had been said about the "good warfare" and "the whole
armour," and how interested Frank had been. He told a little, too,
about their conversation on the way to the station, and Mr Inglis could
not but smile at their making "soldiers" of all the neighbours, and at
their way of illustrating the idea to themselves. By and by David
added:
"I wish Frank had heard what you said to-day about victory. It would
have come in so well after the talk about the `soldiers' and fighting.
He would have liked to hear about the victory."
"Yes," said his father, gravely; "it is pleasanter to hear of the
victory than the conflict, but the conflict must come first, Davie, my
boy."
"Yes, papa, I know."
"And, my boy, the first step to becoming a `soldier' is the enrolling of
the name. And you know who said `He that is not for me is against me.'
Think what it would be to be found on the other side on the day when
even Death itself `shall be swallowed up in victory.'"
David made no answer. It was not Mr Inglis's way to speak often in
this manner to his children. He did not make every solemn circumstance
in life the occasion for a personal lesson or warning to them, till they
"had got used to it," as children say, and so heard it without heeding.
So David could not just listen to his father's words, and let them slip
out of his mind again as words of course. He could not put them aside,
nor could he say, as some boys might have said at such a time, that he
wished to be a soldier of Christ and that he meant to try. For in his
heart he was not sure that he wished to be a soldier of Christ in the
sense his father meant, and though he had sometimes said to himself that
he meant to be one, it was sometime in the future--a good while in the
future, and he would have been mocking himself and his father, too, if
he had told him that he longed to enrol his name. So he sat beside him
without a word.
They had come by this time to the highest point of the road leading to
Gourlay Centre, at least the highest point where the valley through
which the Gourlay river flowed could be seen; and of his own accord old
Don stood still to rest. He always did so at this point, and not
altogether for his own pleasure, for Mr Inglis and David were hardly
ever so pressed for time but that they were willing to linger a minute
or two to look down on the valley and the hills beyond. The two
villages could be seen, and the bridge, and a great many fine fields
lying round the scattered farm-houses, and, beyond these, miles and
miles of unbroken forest. David might travel through many lands and see
no fairer landscape, but it did not please him to-night. There was no
sunshine on it to-night, and he said to himself that it always needed
sunshine. The grey clouds had gathered again, and lay in piled-up
masses veiling the west, and the November wind came sweeping over the
hills cold and keen. Mr Inglis shivered, and wrapped his coat closely
about him, and David touched Don impatiently. The drive had been rather
a failure, he thought, and they might as well be getting home. But he
had time for a good many troubled thoughts before they reached the
bridge over the Gourlay.
"To enrol one's name." He had not done that, and that was the very
first step towards becoming a soldier. "He that is not for me is
against me." He did not like that at all. He would have liked to
explain that so as to make it mean something else. He would have liked
to make himself believe that there was some middle ground. "He that is
not against me is for me." In one place it said that, and he liked it
much better. He tried to persuade himself that he was not against
Christ. No, certainly he was not against Him. But was he for Him in
the sense his father meant--in the sense that his father was for Him,
and his mother, and a good many others that came into his mind? Had he
deliberately enrolled his name as one of the great army whom Christ
would lead to victory?
But then how could he do this? He could not do it, he said to himself.
It was God's work to convert the soul, and had not his father said
within the hour, "It is God that giveth the victory?" Had he not said
that salvation was all of grace from beginning to end--that it was a
gift--"God's gift." What more could be said?
But David knew in his heart that a great deal more could be said. He
knew great as this gift was--full and free as it was, he had never asked
for it--never really desired it. He desired to be saved from the
consequences of sin, as who does not? but he did not long to be saved
from sin itself and its power in the heart, as they must be whom God
saves. He did not feel that he needed this. If he was not "for Christ"
in the sense his father and mother were for Him, still the thought came
back--surely he was _not_ against Him; even though it might not be
pleasant for him to think of giving up all for Christ--to "take up his
cross and follow Him," still he was not "against Him."
Oh! if there only were some other way! If people could enlist in a real
army, and march away to fight real battles, as men used to do in the
times when they fought for the Cross and the possession of the holy
Sepulchre! "Or, rather, as they seemed to be fighting for them," said
David, with a sigh, for he knew that pride and envy and the lust for
power, too often reigned in the hearts of them who in those days had
Christ's name and honour on their lips; and that the cause of the Cross
was made the means to the winning of unworthy ends. Still, if one could
only engage sincerely in some great cause with all their hearts, and
labour and strive for it for Christ's sake, it would be an easier way,
he thought.
Or if he could have lived in the times of persecution, or in the times
when Christian men fought at once for civil and religious freedom! Oh!
that would have been grand! He would have sought no middle course then.
He would have fought, and suffered, and conquered like a hero in such
days as those. Of course such days could never come back again, but if
they could!
And then he let his mind wander away in dreams, as to how if such times
ever were to come back again, he would be strong and wise, and
courageous for the right--how he would stand by his father, and shield
his mother, and be a defence and protection to all who were weak or
afraid. Bad men should fear him, good men should honour--his name
should be a watchword to those who were on the Lord's side.
It would never do to write down all the foolish thoughts that David had
on his way home that afternoon. He knew that they were foolish, and
worse than foolish, when he came out of them with a start as old Don
made his accustomed little demonstration of energy and speed as they
came to the little hill by the bridge, not far from home. He knew that
they were foolish, and he could not help glancing up into his father's
face with a little confusion, as if he had known his thoughts all the
time.
"Are you tired, papa?--and cold?" asked he.
"I am a little cold. But here we are at home. It is always good to get
home again."
"Yes," said David, springing down. "I am glad to get home."
He had a feeling of relief which he was not willing to acknowledge even
to himself. He could put away troubled thoughts now. Indeed they went
away of themselves without an effort, the moment Jem hailed him from the
house. They came again, however, when the children being all in bed,
and his father not come down from the study, his mother asked him about
old Tim's funeral, and the people who were there, and what his father
had said to them. He told her about it, and surprised her and himself
too, by the clearness and accuracy with which he went over the whole
address. He grew quite eager about it, and told her how the people
listened, and how "you might have heard a pin fall" in the little pauses
that came now and then. And when he had done, he said to her as he had
said to his father:
"I wish Frank had been there to hear all that papa said about victory,"
and then, remembering how his father had answered him, his troubled
thoughts came back again, and his face grew grave.
"But it was good for you to hear it, Davie," said his mother.
"Yes," said David, uneasily, thinking she was going to say more. But
she did not, and he did not linger much longer down-stairs. He said he
was tired and sleepy with his long drive in the cold, and he would go to
bed. So carrying them with him, he went up-stairs, where Jem was
sleeping quite too soundly to be wakened for a talk, and they stayed
with him till he went to sleep, which was not for a long time. They
were all gone in the morning, however. A night's sleep and a morning
brilliant with sunshine are quite enough to put painful thoughts out of
the mind of a boy of fourteen--for the time, at least, and David had no
more trouble with his, till Miss Bethia Barnes, coming to visit them one
afternoon, asked him about Mr Bent's funeral and the bearers and
mourners, and about his father's text and sermon, and then they came
back to him again.