Part 23 (2/2)
”Traveling Zionward, David, we have often to walk in the wilderness.
Thee hast dwelt in Skye and in Shetland; what other lands hast thee seen?”
”I have been east as far as Smyrna. I sat there and read the message of 'the First and the Last' to its church. And I went to Athens, and stood where St. Paul had once stood. And I have seen Rome and Naples and Genoa and Ma.r.s.eilles, and many of the Spanish and French ports. I have pulled oranges from the trees, and great purple grapes from the vines, and even while I was eating them longed for the oat-cakes and fresh fish of Shetland.”
”Rome and Naples and Athens! Then, David, thee hast seen the fairest cities on the earth.”
”And yet, Friend John, what h.e.l.ls I saw in them! I was taken through great buildings where men and women die of dreadful pain. I saw other buildings where men and women could eat and sleep, and could not think or love or know. I saw drinking-h.e.l.ls and gambling-h.e.l.ls. I saw men in dark and awful prisons, men living in poverty and filth and blasphemy, without hope for this world or the next. I saw men die on the scaffold. And, John, I have often wondered if this world were h.e.l.l. Are we put here in low, or lower, or lowest h.e.l.l to work out our salvation, and so at last, through great tribulation, win our weary way back to heaven?”
John Priestly was silent a few moments ere he answered: ”If that were even so, there is still comfort, David. For if we make our bed in any of such h.e.l.ls,--mind, _we_ make it,--even there we are not beyond the love and the pity of the Infinite One. For when the sorrows of h.e.l.l compa.s.sed David of old, he cried unto G.o.d, and he delivered him from his strong enemy, and brought him forth into a large place.
So, then, David, though good men may get into h.e.l.l, they do not need to stay there.”
”I know that by experience, John. Have I not been in the lowest pit, in darkness, in the deeps, in that lowest h.e.l.l of the soul where I had no G.o.d to pray to? For how could I pray to a G.o.d so cruel that I did not dare to become a father, lest he should elect my children to d.a.m.nation? a G.o.d so unjust that he loved without foresight of faith or good works, and hated because it was his pleasure to hate, and to ordain the hated to dishonor and wrath?”[4]
”And yet, David?”
”In my distress my soul cried out, '_G.o.d pity me! G.o.d pity me!_' And even while I so wronged him he sent from above--he sent you, John; he took me, he drew me out of many waters,--for great was his mercy toward me,--and he delivered my soul from the lowest h.e.l.l.”
----- [Footnote 4: Confession of Faith, chap. 3, secs. v-vii; chap. 16, sec. vii.]
XII
”AT LAST IT IS PEACE”
A week after this conversation David was near Lerwick. It was very early in the morning, and the sky was gray and the sea was gray, and through the vapory veiling the little town looked gray and silent as a city in a dream. During the voyage he had thought of himself always as hastening at once to Nanna's house, but as soon as his feet touched the quay he hesitated. The town appeared to be asleep; there was only here and there a thin column of peat smoke from the chimneys, and the few people going about their simple business in the misty morning were not known to him. Probably, also, he had some unreasonable expectation, for he looked sadly around, and, sighing, said:
”To be sure, such a thing would never happen, except in a dream.”
After all, it seemed best that he should go first to Barbara Traill's. She would give him a cup of tea, and while he drank it he could send one of Glumm's little lads with a message to Nanna.
There was nothing of cowardice in this determination; it was rather that access of reverential love which, as it draws nearer, puts its own desire and will at the feet of the beloved one.
Barbara's door stood open, and she was putting fresh fuel under the hanging tea-kettle. The smell of the peat smoke was homely and pleasant to David; he sniffed it eagerly as he called out:
”Well, then, mother, good morning!”
She raised herself quickly, and turned her broad, kind face to him.
A strange shadow crossed it when she saw David, but she answered affectionately:
”Well, then, David, here we meet again!”
Then she hastened the morning meal, and as she did so asked question after question about his welfare and adventures, until David said a little impatiently:
”There is enough of this talk, mother. Speak to me now of Nanna Sinclair. Is she well?”
”Your aunt Sabiston is dead. There was a great funeral, I can tell you that. She has left all her money to the kirk and the societies; and a white stone as high as two men has come from Aberdeen for her grave. Well, so it is. And you must know, also, that my son has married himself, and not to my liking, and so he has gone from me; and your room is empty and ready, if you wish it so; and--”
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