Читать книгу Gathered In - Catherine Helen Spence - Страница 4

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Although Kenneth Oswald's position at school was somewhat improved by the added interest of the master in him, and by his beginning Latin, and liking it better for its own sake than he had expected, nothing out of doors or at school could make up in any measure for the loss of his mother at home. His grandmother's long-cherished hopes had been finally disappointed, and the boy was less interesting to her than he had been, and he missed his mother's quick sympathy with his words, and her loving insights into his thoughts and visions. His grandfather was somewhat deaf, and sat somewhat isolated in the chimney corner, and though the old woman kept her faculties wonderfully bright, her interest in his learning was for the end of Kenneth becoming a minister; it was only a step in the ladder to reach this result--nothing of any value in itself. Isabel Oswald, though she would not have been called clever, had a wonderful knack of smoothing a difficulty, or carrying Kenneth over it, and however busy she might be, everything was laid aside if he needed her. Whatever was her press of work, and at times she was very busy, she always left her Saturday afternoons at leisure to spend them with him. In the summer they had long walks together, up the neighbouring hill, where there was a view over three countries, where she could point out the special beauties, not like an art critic, but like a nature-lover; or they would track the burn up to its source in a little fairy-like glen, where the hazel-nuts grew, and he would get up the trees and gather them when they were ripe; or go to the "scaurs" where the brambles (Anglice, blackberries) grew, or they would more rarely go to the nearest town, where she would do her little marketings, and get Kenneth's help in carrying them home. As they walked or while they rested, and latterly there had been a good deal of resting, they talked openly, freely, a affectionately, of all kinds of subjects. At home, Isabel was often checked for spoiling and over-indulging her boy; here, there was no one to remark upon, or chide her single-minded absorption in the life of another. Sometimes Nelly Lindores, the daughter of a neighbour, accompanied them, if the walk was not too far or fatiguing, and even with this restriction Isabel often carried the little girl for a bit, and Kenneth, who was nearly two years older, would take her in his arms when the little feet were tired.

Nelly was no check in the familiar intercourse. She listened wonderingly to what she could not understand; and to her Kenneth and his mother were like superior beings, who deigned to take notice of her. Her stepmother objected to these Saturday rambles, "wearing out the lassie's shoon, and making her so tired she was only fit for her bed when she came back," and contrived so often to disappoint the child, but if her father could circumvent her plans, Nelly had her walk. In winter there were some days in which they could not go out, but Isabel managed something else nearly as pleasant. She would get some little useful work that they could do for her, while she read or told them stories. Her voice was sweet, and she knew what would interest her hearers. On those walks, and especially on the days when they could not walk, she would encourage the little ones to repeat to her all the nursery rhymes, ballads, hymns, and paraphrases they knew; and sometimes she would read simple poetry to them. The very last such Saturday afternoon she had begun the "Lady of the Lake," which Kenneth had finished reading to her when she was confined to her bed. He could follow it very well, although it was too advanced for Nelly.

Now, how dreary and blank was the Saturday afternoon--so looked forward to in old times! How uninteresting even the Latin lesson which he could not bring to her! How tasteless was getting up dux in the class, or being commended, when he had not his mother to tell it to! How especially stony the Shorter Catechism, which had always been Kenneth's great stumblingblock, for verbal memory was not his strong point, and the most literal accuracy was required by the master at the point of the "tawse" (or leathern strap). Although Isabel Oswald had always said humbly that she could not understand it all herself, and indeed was doubtful if anyone in the parish, except the minister and the master himself, had the complete comprehension of it, she could simplify and explain it so that it could be learned.

On the Sunday after his mother's funeral, when, according to use and wont, he went over with his grandmother that part of the Catechism learned during the past week, and she asked him--

"What is Adoption?" he gave the correct answer.

"Adoption is the act of God's free grace, whereby we are admitted into the number and have a right to all the privileges of the sons of God," and then stopped a minute.

"Granny, if Mr. McDiarmid helps wi' my schooling, and gets me my books, and writes to me and befriends me, will that no be a kind of adoption? And, ye see, it's like the adoption in the 'Questions,' it's no for my ain sake, no for onything I have done or can do, but for the sake of my mother, and her goodness to his sister that is dead lang syne".

"There's naething to be compared to the wonders o' redeeming grace," said the grandmother sternly. "As far as the Heavens are higher than the earth, so are my thoughts higher than your thoughts, and my ways than your ways."

"To be sure, I ken that, but it's something like, and I can keep mind of the question better, and that's a gude thing, is it not, Granny?" said Kenneth.

"Oh, ay," said the grandmother, sighing. "And now, 'What is Sanctification?"

"Sanctification is an act," began Kenneth.

"No, Kenneth, a work," was the correction.

"Oh, I mind noo. Mother telled me that was a slow thing; that folk did na grow holy in a day, but in a lifetime; that it was na like the others, justification and adoption, done for us, wi' a flash (as it were) o' the loving ee o' God; but went on and went on all through the days and months and long years till ye died.

"Does it go on after that, Granny? Do folk grow better and better after they are dead? Mother said she dinna ken when I asked her. She kens now," said the boy solemnly.

"They are changed in a moment--in the twinkling of an ee, Kenneth, and are made perfect at once. The Questions tell ye that."

"Then they canna be ony better than perfect?" said Kenneth, doubtfully.

"I dinna see how they can be better nor that," said the grandmother; and to this proposition, when appealed to, John Oswald also assented.

"I'd like to be aye getting on," said Kenneth. "If Heaven is to be a' standing still, Heaven canna be so very good after all. But, Granny, James Hepburn says he's learning naething at the schule now, he's learnt a' thing the maister can learn him."

"He'll gang to college next session, and he'll behove to learn mair there," said the Grandmother.

"An' after he's learnt a' at college, will he stan' still then?"

"Na; he'll have some business to learn, if he does na gang into the kirk, and if that, he'll hae to study."

"An' after his business is learnt?" insisted Kenneth.

"He's gotten to practeese it, laddie. I'm thinking that a' the years o' his life he'll find something to do an' something to learn, for a' he's sae upsetting as to say he can learn naething frae the maister."

"But supposing I was to dee the night, as whiles I wish I would, will there be ony school or college to gang till in Heaven, or ony trade to learn?"

"Na, laddie; Heaven is a' thegither different; there's nae comparison. Young and auld, gentle and semple, learned and unlearned, a' are equal in Heaven."

"Then I'd like to live lang, lang--if it werena that mother is there waiting and wearying--but I want to learn a' I can, I'd be awful sorry to dee, and lose the chance of being an engineer. Dear, dear there'll be nae trains in heaven, and nae steamers, and nae telegraphs."

"What need o' trains, laddie, when every blessed spirit has wings to fly swiftly by, swift as thought--what need of steamships when there shall be no more sea--what need of telegraphs when soul is laid open to soul, and all rest peacefully in the Redeemer. Oh! laddie, the warld has great hauld of you. And ye want to do wi' me as ye did wi' your mother, ae question out o' the buik, and ten out o' your ain head. What is Sanctification?"

"But, granny, just wait a minute. When mother said, ye mind, 'I'm ready to go now, Lord Jesus,' did she mean that she kent she was sanctified enough to get to Heaven?"

"Maybe, laddie, maybe, but folk are fit for Heaven when they are only justified, for the merits of the Saviour are sanctification eneuch for them."

"Then maybe it would be best, I mean it would be safest, for folk to dee at once after they are justified, for then there would be nae fear o' their falling back."

"I think they canna fall back," said the old woman thoughtfully, "at least no to be lost."

"But some gude folk fall into sin, granny."

"Aye! more's the pity, but they repent ere they dee, ye may be sure o' that," said the grandmother.

"But some dinna repent, they dee suddenly," said Kenneth.

"Then they couldna hae had the root o' the matter in them. God will never lose his ain, or suffer them to be lost. We hae his covenanted promise for that."

"Aye, but maybe I'm nane o' his, though mother said she was sure of it."

"You're young yet, Kenneth, but you're the bairn of mony prayers, and He is a Hearer of prayer."

"Aye granny, and mother'll be praying for me now nearer hand than ever afore."

"Whisht, laddie, whisht. There's nae prayers frae the dead."

"Then she's no in Heaven--she's no in life anywhere," said Kenneth, with a sudden burst of tears, "and I'll never see her or hear her mair."

"Dinna gang on in sic a daft-like fashion, Kenneth. I humbly trust, through Christ's mercy, that your mother is now in bliss."

"In bliss, and no praying for me in some way; na, na, granny, ye'll never make me trow that."

"Dinna be wise or presumptuous beyond what is written in God's Word, Kenneth. We ken by Holy Writ that where the tree falls there it lies, and that there is nae repentance in the grave, and that the Papistical notion of the intercession o' saunts is a monstrous delusion got up for the sake o' filthy lucre by thae priests o' Baal. Na, na, laddie, ye had your mother for ten years, keep mind o' all the good advice she gied you, and gang to the Great Fountain-head yoursel' as she gaed, but trust nae mair to her prayers, for now it is only a hymn of praise to God and to the Lamb that she is singing round the throne, at least we trust that she is," said the old woman with a sigh. "And now, again, what is Sanctification?"

Kenneth said the answer, not exactly perfectly; he was checked three times for rectification; but when he had finished his task he sat looking into the fire, with his mother's Bible in his hand. There was no part of it that interested him so much as the fly leaf. The inscription there was--

Isabel Oswald, 1 January, 18--

From her father, John Oswald.

And below that, in the troubled hand that had just penned the summons to Mr. McDiarmid--

To my dear son, Kenneth.

With his mother's dying blessing.

His mother's dying blessing! Yes, as long as she was in this world her soul had poured itself out in prayers for him, for his being good and happy. What a strange, heartless transformation it must be to that loving mother to cross the black river of death, and then to be absorbed in such a flood of glory as to forget the tearful face her dying eyes were fixed on to the last. Not only to cease to watch over, to help, and to comfort the son of her love, but to cease to pray for him, or to ask God or Jesus to comfort his grief. No doubt Granny knew--she spoke with authority, his mother always took her opinions on such matters as conclusive--and when Kenneth strove to recall the last words his mother uttered, there was nothing that expressed any confidence on her part that she could hereafter be near to him at any time, or aid him in any way. That was the very bitterness of death to Isabel Oswald. She could only urge him to be good, to fear God, and put his trust in Christ; and she hoped and believed they should meet in glory.

Yes, in glory! After the long years of pilgrimage were over. He had just wished for a long life, that he might learn all that could be learned before the sudden transformation should crystallise him into perfection; but now he shuddered at the idea of a long life, with its temptations, its sorrows, and its dangers, vaguely apprehended by his childish mind, but yet felt too much for him to go through without his protecting counsellor and guide. He longed for the wings of a dove that he might fly at once to the safe and glorious haven of rest; for whatever might be said by Granny about the perfect happiness of Heaven, he was sure his mother would lose something of bliss if she, being among the sheep in the fold of the Good Shepherd, could see him afar aff among the goats.

More solitary than he had felt before, more conscious of the tremendous gap between him and the dead, he crept to his bed. No mother now to bend over him, as he said his evening prayer--not even the shadowy mother who had ever since her death hovered near. She was so far away in glory that she did not hear or heed the sobs that shook the boy's frame. The song of praise in which she joined would be too loud to let her hear the desolate cry of her only child. Somehow his thoughts reverted to his mother's friend, and he fancied that if he could only talk to him he might comfort him a little.