Part 24

"None but they can know how good," was my response.

My remark seemed to pass unnoticed, for Geordie had more to say.

"Hark ye, an' I'll tell ye hoo God cam' to me. 'Twas near the dawn this verra mornin' I had a dream, an' wee Jessie cam' to me. An' that was God, nae ither ane but God. 'Oot o' the mooth o' babes,' is that no' i' the Buik? For wee Jessie stood beside the bed, an' I luikit at her an' I said, 'My little dochter.' 'Twas a' I could say, an' she pit her saft haun' on my heid sae gentle, an' sae blessed cool, for my heid was burnin' hot. She luikit lang, an' her een was fu' o' love: 'Faither,' she said, 'did ye no' promise yir lassie to meet her in the Faither's hoose? Oh, faither, I've come to mind ye o' yir promise an' to set yir puir feet upon the path ance mair. God loves ye, faither; I hae it frae Himsel'; an' there's mony a ane wi' Him noo in white wha wandered farther bye nor you. An' God 'll try, gin ye'll try yirsel', an' yir wee Jessie 'll no' be far frae ye. Wull ye no' come, faither? for yir ain lassie, an' mither, an' God, a' want ye.'

"I luikit lang intil her angel face, but I was feart to speak, for I wasna worthy. The road was bricht eneuch, but I wasna fit to gang.

"'I ken what yir thinkin' o', faither. I ken yir enemy--an' God kens. It's the drink. But it'll pass yir lips nae mair. I'll kiss them, faither, an' they'll burn wi' the awfu' thirst nae mair.'

"An' she stoopit doon an' kissed my burnin' lips; an' I waukit up, an' the fever was a' past an' by. I tell't Betsy, an' she grat wi' joy. 'It's i' the Buik,' she said.

"'What's i' the Buik?' I speirt.

"'A little child shall lead them,' Betsy said."

I talked a little while with Geordie as one talks with a shipwrecked sailor who has gained the shore. He asked me to pray.

"Mak' it easy," he said, "I'm no' far ben the Mystery yet. I'm but a bairn; but my lips are pure, an' the fever's by."

We knelt together, and I prayed: "O Friend of sinners, help us both, for we are both sinners. Keep us, blessed Lord, and let his little daughter be near us both to help us on the way. We will both try our best, and Thou wilt too. Amen."

My half-written sermon never has been finished. I was constrained to take another text, and the next Sabbath morn I saw Betsy Lorimer bow her head in reverent adoration when I gave it out--

"Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister?"

XVIII

HOW ELSIE WON The GATE

The forest's glory is departed when its giant trees lie low. And, stroke by stroke, my St. Cuthbert's Kirk was thus bereft of its outstanding glories. For great men are like great trees, the shelter of all others and the path-finders towards the sky.

My sun is westering now, and the oft-repeated crash as these mighty stalwarts fall keeps my heart in almost abiding sadness. For the second growth gives no promise of a stock which shall be worthy successors to these noble pioneers, the conquering gladiators of Canada's shadowy forests, the real makers of her great and portentous national life. And yet, strange to say, I never knew their real greatness while I lived among them, sharing in the varied chase, but only when they came to die.

This was especially true of those who boasted far-back highland blood, for their depths of tenderness and heights of faith and scope of spiritual vision were sternly hidden till the helplessness of death betrayed them. Then was the key to their secret life surrendered; then might all men see the face at the pane. But not till then; for every stolid feature, every stifled word or glance of tenderness, every muffled note of religious self-revealment, swelled their life's noble perjury. To their own hurt they swore, changing not. But at their real best he saw them who saw them die.

In that ingenuous hour they spoke once more their mother tongue of love and faith with an accuracy which told of lifelong rehearsal within their secret hearts. When the golden bowl was broken, its holy contents, flowing free, poured forth the long-imprisoned fragrance.

How many a day, cold and gray, flowers at sunset into rich redemptive beauty, cheerless avenue leading to its grand Cathedral West! Thus have I seen these Scottish lives, stern and cold and rayless, break into flame at evening, in whose light I caught the glory of the very gates of the City of God.

It was the winter of the strike, whose story I have already told, that Elsie M'Phatter heard the Voice which calls but once. Long and gentle had been the slope towards the river, and I held Elsie's hand every step of the way, myself striving to hold that other Hand which is truly visible only in the darkness; but the last stage of the journey came swift and suddenly. About two in the morning I was awakened by the loud alarm of my door-bell.

The minister knows well that at such an hour his bell is rung only by eternal winds, and the alarm is an almost certain message that the rapids are near and that he is wanted at the helm. On Atlantic liners I have never heard the ominous note that calls the captain from his cabin to the bridge without thinking of my midnight bell, and that deeper darkness, and that more awful channel.

It was the doctor's boy who thus summoned me, bidding me hurry to Elsie's bedside, for the tide was ebbing fast, he said. I was soon on my way through the frosty night, silently imploring the unseen Pilot that He would safe into the haven guide. To His great wisdom and His sheltering love I committed all the case, making oath beneath the silent stars that I had myself no other hope than this with which I hurried to yonder dying one. For a man's own heart must swear by the living Lord, or else he will find no path through the dread wilderness of death for the unreturning feet.

When the outskirts of the town were but well behind me, I saw in the distance a solitary light which I knew at once to be the death-chamber lamp; at sight whereof my heart has never outgrown a strange leap of trembling fear, like a scout when he catches the first warning gleam of the enemy's campfire. Yonder, I said to myself, is the battle-field of a soul, struggling with its last great foe; yonder the central crisis of all time and all eternity; yonder the heaving breast, the eager, onward look, the unravelling of mystery, the launching of a soul upon eternal seas.

No life is ever commonplace when that lamp burns beside it, and no wealth, or genius, or greatness can palliate its relentless gleam. There, continued I, stands the dread unseen Antagonist, asking no chair, demanding no courtesy, craving no welcome, resenting no frowning and averted face; calmly does he brook the terror and the hatred excited by his uninvited advent, serene in the confidence that his is the central figure, that the last word is his, though all pretend to ignore his presence. Like a sullen creditor he stands, careless that every man's hand is against him, relentlessly following his prey, willing that all others should wait his time and theirs, intent only that this night shall have its own.

And yet, I thought, what a false picture is this that my coward heart hath drawn! There is Another in that room, I cried half loud, Another there before me, whose swift feet have outrun my poor trudging through the snow. For He is there who lit that feeble lamp itself, and it burns only by His will. Death-lamp though it be, it is still a broken light of Him, witness, in its own dark way, to the All-kindling Hand. The Lover of the soul is yonder, and will share His dear-bought victory with my poor dying one.

Whereat I pressed on eagerly, for I love to witness a reprieve, such as many a time it hath been mine to see when the Greater Antagonist prevails.

The death damp was on Elsie's brow when I knelt beside her bed, but her eyes were kindled from afar, and a great Presence filled the room. Donald was bowed beside her, his wife's wasted hand clasped passionately in his own.