Part 11 (1/2)

”Of what are you afraid, Davie? There is nothing you need fear, except delay. You cannot come to Him too soon. David, when you were the child of an hour only, I gave you up to G.o.d to be His always. I asked Him to make you a special messenger of His to sinful men. His minister. That may be if He wills. I cannot tell. But I do know that He will that you should be one of His 'good soldiers.'”

There was a long silence, for it tired him to speak, and David said nothing. By and by his father said:

”How can I leave your mother to your care, unless I know you safe among those whom G.o.d guides? But you must give yourself to Him. Your mother will need you, my boy, but you may fight well the battles of the Lord, even while working with your hands for daily bread. And for the rest, the way will open before you. I am not afraid.”

”Papa,” said David, raising himself up to look into his father's face, ”why are you saying all this to me to-night?”

”I am saying it to you because you are your mother's first-born son, and must be her staff and stay always. And to-night is a good time to say it.”

”But, papa,” said the boy with difficulty, ”it is not because you think you are going to die? Does mamma know?”

”I do not know, my son. Death has seemed very near to me to-day. And it has been often in your mother's thoughts of late, I do not doubt. My boy! it is a solemn thing to feel that death may be drawing near. But I am not afraid. I think I have no cause to be afraid.”

He raised himself up and looked into the boy's face with a smile, as he repeated:

”David--I have no cause to fear--since Jesus died.”

”No, papa,” said David, faintly. ”But mamma--and--all of us.”

”Yes, it will be sad to leave you, and it will be sad for you to be left. But I am not afraid. 'Leave thy fatherless children; I will preserve them alive, and let thy widow trust in me.' He has said it, and He will bring it to pa.s.s. The promise is more to me, to-night, than untold wealth could be. And Davie, I leave them to your care. You must take my place with them, and comfort your mother, and care for your brothers and sisters. And David you must be a better soldier than I have ever been.”

David threw himself forward with a cry.

”Oh papa! how can I? how can I? I am afraid, and I do not even know that my name is enrolled, and that is the very first--”

”My boy! But you may know. Have you ever given yourself to our great leader? Have you asked him to enrol your name? Ask Him now. Do not I love you? His love is greater far than mine!”

There had been moments during that day when the Lord had seemed very far away from His servant, but he felt Him to be very near Him now, as he poured out his heart in prayer for his son. He did not use many words, and they were faintly and feebly uttered, but who shall doubt but they reached the ear of the Lord waiting to hear and answer. But they brought no comfort to David that night. Indeed he hardly heard them.

There was only room in his heart for one thought. ”Death may be drawing near!” his father had said, and beyond that he could not look. It was too terrible to believe. He would not believe it. He would not have it so.

By and by when there came the sound of footsteps on the stairs, he slipped unseen out of the room, and then out of the house, and seeking some place where he might be alone, he went up into the loft above old Don's crib, and lay down upon the hay, and wept and sobbed his heart out there. He prayed, too, asking again for the blessing which his father had asked for him; and for his father's life. He prayed earnestly, with strong crying and tears; but in his heart he knew that he cared more for his father's life and health than for the better blessing, and though he wept all his tears out, he arose uncomforted. The house was still and dark when he went in. His mother had thought that he had gone to bed, and Jem that he was sitting in the study as he often did, and he was fast asleep when David lay down beside him, and no one knew the pain and dread that was in his heart that night.

But when he rose in the morning, and went down-stairs, and heard the cheerful noise of the children, and saw his mother going about her work as she always did, all that had happened last night seemed to him like a dream. By and by his father came among them, no graver than in other days, and quite as well as he had been for a long time, and everything went on as usual all day, and for a good many days. n.o.body seemed afraid. His mother was watchful, and perhaps a little more silent than usual, but that was all. As for his father, the worst must have been past that night, as he had said, for there was no cloud over him now.

He was cheerful always--even merry, sometimes, when he amused himself with little Polly and the rest. He was very gentle with them all, more so than usual, perhaps, and David noticed that he had Violet and Jem alone with him in the study now and then. Once when this happened with Jem, David did not see him again all day, and afterwards--a long time afterwards--Jem told him that he had spent that afternoon in the hay-loft above old Don's crib.

At such times he used to wonder whether their father spoke to them as he had spoken to him that night, when he told him how ”Death might be drawing near.” But they never spoke to one another about it. And, indeed, it was not difficult during those cheerful quiet days, to put such thoughts out of their minds. The people came and went, looking grave sometimes, but not as though they had any particular cause for fear. The minister went out almost every fine day with David or his mother, or with Jem if it was Sat.u.r.day, for the children were growing almost jealous of one another, as to opportunities for doing things for papa, and Jem must have his turn, too.

How kind all the people were! Surely there never was anything like it before, the children thought. Some among them whom they had not much liked, and some whom they had hardly known, came out in a wonderful way with kind words and kinder deeds, and if kindness and thoughtfulness, and love that was almost reverence, would have made him well, he would soon have been in his old place among them again. His place on Sunday was supplied as often as possible from abroad, and when it could not be, the people managed as well as they could, and that was better than usual, for all hearts were softened and touched by the sorrow that had come on them as a people, and nothing was allowed to trouble or annoy the minister that could be prevented by them. They would have liked him to go away as the doctor had advised, and the means would have been provided to accomplish it, but the minister would not hear of being sent away. He felt, he said, that he would have a better chance for recovery at home. Not that there was any chance in that, according to his thought. It was all ordered, and it would all be well, whichever way it was to end, and he was best and happiest at home.

And so the time pa.s.sed on, and then, and afterwards, no one ever thought or spoke of these days but as happy days. And yet, in the secret heart of every one of them, of the mother and the children, and of the kind people that came and went, there was a half-conscious waiting for something that was drawing near. It was a hope, sometimes, and sometimes it was a dread. The neighbours put it into words, and the hopeful spoke of returning health and strength, and of the lessons of faith and love they should learn by and by, through the experience of the minister in the sick room; and those who were not hopeful, spoke of other lessons they might have to learn through other means. But in the house they only waited, speaking no word of what the end might be.

At last there came a day, when no words were needed, to tell what messenger of the King was on his way. The hushed voices of the children, the silence in the house, told it too plainly. The laboured breathing of the sick man, the feverish hand, the wandering eye, were visible tokens that death was drawing near. The change came suddenly.

They were not prepared for it, they said. But there are some things for which we cannot make ourselves ready, till we feel ourselves shuddering under the blow.

Ah! well. He was ready, and the rest mattered little. Even the mother said that to herself and to him, with the sobbing of their children in her ears. She did not sob nor cry out in her pain, but kept her face calm and smiling for him till the very last. And because, with his laboured breathing, and the pain which held him fast, he could not say to her that which was in his heart, she said it all to him--how they had loved one another, and how G.o.d had cared for them always, and how happy they had been, and how, even in the parting that was before them, G.o.d's time was best, and she was not afraid.

And she was _not_ afraid! Looking into those triumphant eyes, glad with the brightness of something that she could not see, how could she be afraid? ”For neither life nor death, nor princ.i.p.alities nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of G.o.d, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord,” she murmured, comforting him with her words. He was dying! He was leaving her and their children alone, with G.o.d's promise between them and poverty, and nothing else. Nothing else! Is not that enough? Think of it! G.o.d's promise!

”I am not afraid!” She said the words over and over again. ”Why should I be afraid? There are things far worse than poverty to bear. 'Our bread shall be given us, and our water sure.' I might be afraid for our children without you, had they the temptations of wealth to struggle with. Their father's memory will be better to them than lands or gold.