Out in the Forty-Five Part 26

"Everything belongs to the Bible," said she. "It is the chart for the voyage of life. You mean, dear heart, is it right to pray about earthly things which have to do with the body? No doubt it is. 'Give us this day our daily bread.'"

"But does that mean real, common bread?" I asked. "I thought people said it meant food for the soul."

"People say very foolish things sometimes, my dear. It may include food for the soul, and very likely does. But I think it means food for the body first. 'Your Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.' That, surely, was said of meat and drink and clothing."

I thought a minute. "But I mean more than that," I said; "things that one wishes for, which are not necessaries for the body, and yet are not things for the soul."

"Necessaries for the mind?" suggested Lady Monksburn. "My dear, your mind is a part of you as much as your body and spirit. And 'He careth for you,' body, soul, and spirit--not the spirit only, and not the spirit and body only."

"For instance," I said, "suppose I wanted very much to go somewhere, or not to go somewhere--for reasons which seemed good ones to me--would it be wicked to ask G.o.d to arrange it so?"

Lady Monksburn looked up at me with her gentle, motherly eyes.

"Dear child," she said, "you may ask G.o.d for anything in all the world, if only you will bear in mind that He loves you, and is wiser than you.

'Father, if it be possible,--nevertheless, not My will, but Thine, be done.' You cannot ask a more impossible thing than that which lay between those words. If the world were to be saved, if G.o.d were to be glorified, it was not possible. Did He not know that who asked it with strong crying and tears? Was not the asking done to teach us two things--that He was very man, like ourselves, shrinking from pain and death as much as the very weakest of us can shrink, and also that we may ask anything and everything, if only we desire beyond it that G.o.d's will be done?"

"Thank you," I said, drawing a long breath. Yes, I might ask my second question.

"Lady Monksburn, what is it to trust the Lord Jesus?"

"Do you want to know what trust is, Cary,--or what He is? My child, I think I can tell you the first, but I can never attempt to paint the glory of the second."

"_I_ want to know what people mean by _trusting_ Him. How are you to trust somebody whom you do not know?"

"It is hard. I think you must know a little before you can trust. And by the process of trusting you learn to know. Trust and love are very near akin. You must talk with Him, Cary, if you want to know Him."

"You mean, pray, I suppose?"

"That is talking to Him. It is a poor converse where all the talk is on one side."

"But what is the other side--reading the Bible?"

"That is part of it."

"What is the other part of it?"

Lady Monksburn looked up at me again, with a smile which I do not know how to describe. I can only say that it filled me with a sudden yearning for my dead mother. She might have smiled on me like that.

"My darling!" she answered, "there are things which can be described, and there are things which can but be felt. No man can utter the secret of the Lord--only the Lord Himself. Ask Him to whisper it to you. You will care little for the smiles or the frowns of the world when He has done so."

Is not that just what I want? "But will He tell it to any one?" I said.

"He tells it to those who long for it," she replied. "His smile may be had by any who will have it. It costs a great deal, sometimes. But it is worth the cost."

"What does it cost, Madam?"

"It costs what most men think very precious, and yet is really worth nothing at all. It costs the world's flatteries, which are as a net for the feet; and the world's pleasures, which are as the crackling of thorns under the pot; and the world's honours, which are empty air. It often costs these. There are few men who can be trusted with both."

There was a minute's silence, and then she said,--

"The Scottish Catechism, my dear, saith that 'Man's chief end is to glorify G.o.d, and to enjoy Him for ever.' Grander words were never penned out of G.o.d's own Word. And among the most striking words in it are those of David, which may be called the response thereto--'When I awake up after Thy likeness, I shall be satisfied with it.'"

Then Annas and Flora came in.

But I had got what I wanted.

Bloomsbury Square, London, September 23rd 1745.

While we were travelling, I could not get at my book to write anything; and had I been able, I doubt whether I should have found time. We journeyed from early morning till late at night, really almost as though we were flying from a foe: though of course we should have had nothing to fear, had the royal army overtaken us. It was only the Elector's troops who would have meddled with us; and they were in Scotland somewhere. There is indeed a rumour flying abroad to-night (saith my Uncle Charles), that the Prince has entered Edinburgh: but we know not if it be true or no. If so, he will surely push on straight for London, since the rebellious troops must have been driven quite away, before he could do that. So my Uncle Charles says; and he saith too, that they are a mere handful of raw German mercenaries, who would never stand a moment against the courage, the discipline, and the sense of right, which must animate the King's army.

Oh dear! where shall I begin, if I am to write down all about the journey? And if I do not, it will look like a great gap in my tale.

Well, my Uncle Drummond took us to Hawick--but stop! I have not left Abbotscliff yet, and here I am coming to Hawick. That won't do. I must begin again.

Mr Keith and Angus marched on Thursday night, with a handful of volunteers from Tweedside. It was hard work parting. Even I felt it, and of course Angus is much less to me than the others. Mr Keith said farewell to my Uncle and me, and he came last to Flora. She lifted her eyes to him full of tears as she put her hand in his.

"Duncan," she said, "will you make me a promise?"

"Certainly, Flora, if it be anything that will ease your mind."

"Indeed it will," she said, with trembling lips. "Never lose sight of Angus, and try to keep him safe and true."

"True to the Cause, or true to G.o.d?"

"True to both. I cannot separate between right and right."

I thought there was just one second's hesitation--no more--before Mr Keith gave his solemn answer.

"I will, so help me G.o.d!"

Flora thanked him amidst her sobs. He held her hand a moment longer, and I almost thought that he was going to ask her for something. But suddenly there came a setting of stern purpose into his lips and eyes, and he kissed her hand and let it go, with no more than--"G.o.d bless you, dear Flora. Farewell!"

Then Angus came up, and gave us a much warmer (and rougher) good-bye: but I felt there was something behind Mr Keith's, which he had not spoken, and I wondered what it was.

We left Abbotscliff ourselves at six o'clock next morning. Flora and I were in the chaise; my Uncle Drummond, Sam, and Wedderburn (the Laird's servant) on horseback. At the gates at Monksburn we took up Annas, and Wedderburn joined us there too. The Laird came to see us off, and nearly wrung my hand off as he said, to Flora and me, "Take care of my bairn. The Lord's taking them both from their auld father. If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."

"The Lord will keep them Himself, dear friend," said my Uncle Drummond.

"Surely you see the need to part with them?"

"Oh ay, I see the need clear enough! And an auld noodle I am, to be lamenting to you, who are suffering the very same loss." Then he turned to Annas. "G.o.d be with thee, my bonnie birdie," he said: "the auld Grange will be lone without thy song. But thou wilt let us hear a word of thy welfare as oft as thou canst."

"As often as ever I can, dear Father," said Annas: and as he turned back, and we drove away, she broke down as I had never imagined Annas would do.

We slept that night at the inn at Hawick. On the Sat.u.r.day morning, my Uncle Drummond left us, and we went on to Carlisle, which we reached late at night. Here we were to stay with Dr and Mrs Benn, friends of Father's, who made much of us, and seemed to think themselves quite honoured in having us: and Sam went off at once on a fresh horse to Brocklebank, which he hoped to reach by midnight. They would be looking for him. I charged him with all sorts of messages, which he said grimly that he would deliver if he recollected them when he got there: and I gave him a paper for my Aunt Kezia, with a list of things I would have sent.

On Sunday we went to the Cathedral with our hosts, and spent the day quietly.

But on Monday morning, what was my astonishment, as I was just going into the parlour, to hear a familiar voice say--