Part 10 (2/2)

”We will put it all out of our thoughts for to-day, love,” said Mr Inglis, in his painful whisper, when they were left alone. ”At least we will not speak of it to one another. We must not distrust His loving care of us, dear, even now.”

They did not speak of it to one another, but each apart spoke of it to Him who hears no sorrowful cry of his children unmoved. He did not lift the cloud that gloomed so darkly over them. He did not by a sudden light from Heaven show them a way by which they were to be led out of the darkness, but in it He made them to feel His presence. ”Fear not, for I am with thee. Be not dismayed, for I am thy G.o.d!” and lo! ”the darkness was light about them!”

So when the boys came home the father's face said plainly what both heart and lip could also say, ”It is all right.” And the mother's said it, too, with a difference.

Of course, all that the doctors had said was not told to the children.

Indeed the father and mother did not speak much about it to each other for a good many days. Mr Inglis rested, and in a few days called himself nearly well again, and but for the doctor's absolute prohibition, would have betaken himself to his parish work as usual. It was not easy for him to submit to inactivity, for many reasons that need not be told, and when the first Sabbath of enforced silence came round, it found him in sore trouble, _knowing_, indeed, where to betake himself, but _feeling_ the refuge very far away.

That night he first spoke to David of the danger that threatened him.

They were sitting together in the twilight. The mother and the rest were down-stairs at the usual Sunday reading and singing, which the father had not felt quite able to bear, and now and then the sound of their voices came up to break the stillness that had fallen on these two. David had been reading, but the light had failed him, and he sat very quiet, thinking that his father had fallen asleep. But he had not.

”Davie,” said he, at last, ”what do you think is the very hardest duty that a soldier may be called to do?”

David was silent a minute, partly from surprise at the question, and partly because he had been thinking of all that his father had been suffering on that sorrowful silent day, and he was not quite sure whether he could find a voice to say anything. For at morning wors.h.i.+p, the father had quite broken down, and the children had been awed and startled by the sight of his sudden tears. All day long David had thought about it, and sitting there beside him his heart had filled full of love and reverent sympathy, which he never could have spoken, even if it had come into his mind to try. But when his father asked him that question, he answered, after a little pause:

”Not the fighting, papa, and not the marching. I think perhaps the very hardest thing would be to stand aside and wait, while the battle is going on.”

”Ay, lad! you are right there,” said his father, with a sigh. ”Though why you should look on it in that way, I do not quite see.”

”I was thinking of you, papa,” said David, very softly; and in a little he added: ”This has been a very sad day to you, papa.”

”And I have not been giving you a lesson of trust and cheerful obedience, I am afraid. Yes, this has been a sad, silent day, Davie, lad. But the worst is over. I trust the worst is over now.”

David answered nothing to this, but came closer, and leaned over the arm of the sofa on which his father lay, and by and by his father said:

”My boy, it is a grand thing to be a soldier of Jesus Christ, willing and obedient. And whether it is marching or fighting, or only waiting, our Commander cannot make a mistake. It ought to content us to know that, Davie, lad.”

”Yes, papa,” said David.

”Yes,” added his father, in a little. ”It is a wonderful thing to belong to the great army of the Lord. There is nothing else worth a thought in comparison with that. It is to fight for Right against Wrong, for Christ and the souls of men, against the Devil--with the world for a battle ground, with weapons 'mighty through G.o.d to the pulling down of strongholds'--under a Leader Divine, invincible, and with victory sure. What is there beyond this? What is there besides?”

He was silent, but David said nothing, and in a little while he went on again:

”But we are poor creatures, Davie, for all that. We grow weary with our marching; turned aside from our chosen paths, we stumble and are dismayed, as though defeat had overtaken us; we sit athirst beside our broken cisterns, and sicken in prisons of our own making, believing ourselves forgotten. And all the time, our Leader, looking on, has patience with us--loves us even, holds us up, and leads us safe through all, and gives us the victory at the end. 'Thanks be to G.o.d who giveth us the victory!'” said Mr Inglis, and in a minute he repeated the words again.

Then he lay still for a long time, so long that it grew dark, except for the light of the new moon, and David, kneeling at the head of the sofa, never moved, thinking that his father slumbered now, or had forgotten him. But by and by he spoke again:

”When I was young, just beginning the conflict, I remember saying to myself, if G.o.d will give me twenty years in which to fight His battles, I will be content. The twenty years are almost over now. Ah! how little I have gained for Him from the enemy! Yet I may have to lay down my armour now, just as you are ready to put it on, Davie, my son.”

”Papa! I am not worthy--” said David, with a sob.

”Worthy? No. It is a gift He will give you--as the crown and the palm of the worthiest will be His free gift at last. Not worthy, lad, but willing, I trust.”

”Papa--I cannot tell. I am afraid--”

He drew nearer, kneeling still, and laid his face upon his father's shoulder.

<script>