Читать книгу The Complete Works - O. Douglas (Anna Buchan) - Страница 31

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"The Poet says dear City of Cecrops,

wilt thou not say dear City of God?"

Marcus Aurelius.

Our story ends where it began, in the Thomsons' parlour in Jeanieville, Pollokshields.

It was November then, now it is May, and light long after tea, and in happier circumstances Mr. Thomson would have been out in his shirt-sleeves in the garden, putting in plants and sowing seeds, with Mrs. Thomson (a white shawl round her shoulders) standing beside him admiring, and Alick running the mower, and Jessie offering advice, and Robert sitting with his books by an open window exchanging a remark with them now and again. They had enjoyed many such spring evenings. But this remorseless war had drawn the little Thomsons into the net, and they sat huddled in the parlour, with no thought for the gay green world outside.

This was Robert's last evening at home. He had been training ever since the war broke out, and was now about to sail for the East. They feared that Gallipoli was his destination, that ill-omened place on whose alien shores thousands and thousands of our best and bravest were to "drink death like wine," while their country looked on in anguished pride.

Mr. Chalmers, their new minister, had been in to tea. He had clapped Robert on the back and told him he was proud of him, and proud of the great Cause he was going to fight for. "I envy you, my boy," he said.

Robert had said nothing, but his face wore the expression "Huch! Away!" and when the well-meaning parson had gone he expressed a desire to know what the man thought he was talking about.

"But, man Rubbert," his father said anxiously, "surely you're glad to fight for the Right?"

"If Mr. Chalmers thinks it such a fine thing to fight," said Robert, "why doesn't he go and do it? He's not much more than thirty."

"He's married, Robert," his mother reminded him, "and three wee ones. You could hardly expect it. Besides, he was telling me that if many more ministers go away to be chaplains they'll have to shut some of the churches."

"And high time, too," said Robert.

"Aw, Rubbert," wailed poor Mrs. Thomson, "what harm do the churches do you?"

"Never heed him, Mamma," Mr. Thomson said. "He's just sayin' it."

Mrs. Thomson sat on her low chair by the fireside—the nursing chair where she had sat and played with her babies in the long past happy days, her kind face disfigured by much crying, her hands idle in her lap, looking at her first-born as if she grudged every moment her eyes were away from him. It seemed as if she were learning every line of his face by heart to help her in a future that would hold no Robert.

Jessie, freed for the night from her nursing, sat silently doing a last bit of sewing for her brother.

Alick was playing idly with the buckle of Robert's haversack, and relating at intervals small items of news culled from the evening papers, by way of cheering his family. Robert, always quiet, was almost speechless this last evening.

"I saw Taylor to-day," Mr. Thomson remarked, after a silence. "He asked to be remembered to you, Rubbert. In fact, he kinda hinted he would look in to-night—but I discouraged him."

"Wee Taylor! Oh, help!" ejaculated Alick.

"You were quite right, Papa," said his wife. "We're not wanting anybody the night, not even old friends like the Taylors."

Silence fell again, and Alick hummed a tune.

"Rubbert," said Mrs. Thomson, leaning forward and touching her son's arm, "Rubbert, promise me that you'll not do anything brave."

Robert's infrequent smile broke over his face, making it oddly attractive.

"You're not much of a Roman matron, wee body," he said, patting her hand.

"I am not," said Mrs. Thomson. "I niver was meant for a soldier's mother. I niver liked soldiers. I niver thought it was a very respectable job."

"It's the only respectable job just now, anyway, Mother," said Jessie.

"That's so," said her father.

"There's the bell," cried Alick. "I hear Annie letting somebody in."

"Dash!" said Robert, rising to fly. But he was too late; the door opened, and Annie announced "Mr. Seton."

At the sight of the tall familiar figure everybody rose to their feet and hastened to greet their old minister.

"Well, I niver," said Mrs. Thomson, "and me just saying we couldn't put up with visitors the night."

"You see we don't count you a visitor," Mr. Thomson explained. "Rubbert's off to-morrow."

"I know," said Mr. Seton. "That is why I came. We are in Glasgow for a few days. I left Elizabeth and Buff at the Central Hotel. Elizabeth said you wouldn't want her to-night, but she will come before we leave."

"How is she?" asked Mrs. Thomson. "Poor thing! She'll not laugh so much now."

"Lizbeth," said her father, "is a gallant creature. I think she will always laugh, and like Charles Lamb she will always find this world a pretty world."

This state of mind made no appeal to Mrs. Thomson, and she changed the subject by asking about Mr. Seton's health. His face, she noticed, was lined and worn, he stooped more than he used to do, but his eyes were the same—a hopeful boy's eyes.

"Oh, I'm wonderfully well. You don't grudge me an hour of Robert's last evening? I baptized the boy."

"Ye did that, Mr. Seton"—the tears beginning to flow at the thought—"and little did any of us think that this is what he was to come to."

"No," said Mr. Seton, "we little thought what a privilege was to be his. Robert, when I heard you had enlisted I said, 'Well done,' for I knew what it meant to you to leave your books. And I hear you wouldn't take a commission, but preferred to go with the men you had trained with."

Robert blushed, but his face did not wear the "affronted" look that it generally wore when people praised him as a patriot.

"Ah but, Mr. Seton," Alick broke in eagerly, "Robert's a sergeant! See his stripes! That's just about as good as an officer."

Robert made a grab at his young brother to silence him; but Alick was not to be suppressed.

"I shouldn't wonder," he said in a loud, boastful voice (he had never been so miserable in all his fifteen years)—"I shouldn't wonder if he got the V.C. That would be fine—eh, Robert?"

"I think I see myself," said Robert.

"Rubbert's a queer laddie," Mr. Thomson remarked, looking tenderly at his son. "He was objectin' to Mr. Chalmers sayin' he had a noble Cause."

Robert blushed again.

"There's nothing wrong with the Cause," he grumbled, "but I hate talking about it."

"'Truth hath a quiet breast,'" quoted Mr. Seton.

There was a silence in the little parlour that looked out on the garden. They were all thinking the same thing—would they ever sit here together again?

So many had gone away! So many had not come back. Mrs. Thomson gave a choking sob and burst out: "Oh! Mr. Seton, your boy didn't come back!"

"No," said Mr. Seton gently, "my boy didn't come back!"

"And oh! the bonnie laddie he was! I can just see him as well; the way he used to come swinging into church with his kilt, and his fair hair, and his face so full of daylight. And I'm sure it wasna for want of prayers, for I'm sure Papa there niver missed once, morning and night, and in our own private prayers too—and you would pray just even on?"

"Just even on," said Mr. Seton.

"And He never heeded us," said Mrs. Thomson.

Mr. Seton smiled at the dismayed amazement in her tone.

"Oh, yes, He heeded us. He answered our prayers beyond our asking. We asked life for Alan, and he has given him length of days for ever and ever."

"But that wasna what we meant," complained Mrs. Thomson. "Oh! I whiles think I'm not a Christian at all now. I cannot see why God allows this war. There's Mrs. Forsyth, a neighbour of ours—you wouldn't meet a more contented woman and that proud of her doctor son, Hugh. It was the biggest treat you could give her just to let her talk about him, and I must say he was a cliver, cliver young man. He did wonders at College, and he was gettin' such a fine West End practice when the war began; but nothing would serve but he would away out to France to give his services, and he's killed—killed!" Her voice rose in a wail of horror that so untoward a fate should have overtaken any friend of hers. "And oh! Mr. Seton, how am I to let Rubbert go? All his life I've taken such care of him, because he's not just that awfully strong; he was real sickly as a bairn and awful subject to croup. Many's the time I've left ma bed at nights and listened to his breathing. Papa used to get fair worried with me, I was that anxious-minded. I niver let the wind blow on him. And now...."

"Poor body!" said Mr. Seton. "It's a sore job for the mothers." He turned to Mr. Thomson. "Perhaps we might have prayers together before I go?"

Mr. Thomson brought the Bible, and sat down close beside his wife.

Jessie and Robert and Alick sat together on the sofa, drawn very near by the thought of the parting on the morrow. Mr. Seton opened the Bible.

"We shall sing the Twenty-third Psalm," he said.

Sing? The Thomsons looked at their minister. Even so must the Hebrews have looked when asked to sing Zion's songs by the waters of Babylon. But James Seton, grown wise through a whole campaign of this world's life and death, knew the healing balm of dear familiar things, and as he read the words they dropped like oil on a wound:

"The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want.

He makes me down to lie

In pastures green: He leadeth me

The quiet waters by.

My soul He doth restore again;

And me to walk doth make

Within the paths of righteousness

Ev'n for His own name's sake.

Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale,

Yet will I fear none ill:

For Thou art with me; and Thy rod

And staff me comfort still.

* * * * *

Goodness and mercy all my life

Shall surely follow me;

And in God's house for evermore

My dwelling-place shall be."

It is almost the first thing that a Scots child learns, that the Lord is his Shepherd, that he will not want, that goodness and mercy will follow him—even through death's dark vale.

Death's dark vale, how trippingly we say it when we are children, fearing "none ill."

Mrs. Thomson's hand sought her husband's.

She had been unutterably miserable, adrift from all her moorings, bewildered by the awful march of events, even doubting God's wisdom and love; but as her old minister read her childhood's psalm she remembered that all through her life the promise had never failed; she remembered how stars had shone in the darkest night, and how even the barren plain of sorrow had been curiously beautified with lilies, and she took heart of comfort.

God, Who counteth empires as the small dust of the balance, and Who taketh up the isles as a very little thing, was shaking the nations, and the whole earth trembled. But there are some things that cannot be shaken, and the pilgrim souls of the world need fear none ill.

Goodness and mercy will follow them through every step of their pilgrimage. The way may lie by "pastures green," or through the sandy, thirsty desert, or through the horror and blood and glory of the battlefield, but in the end there awaits each pilgrim that happy place whereof it is said "sorrow and sighing shall flee away."

"We shall sing the whole psalm," said Mr. Seton. "The tune is 'French.'"