The Setons Part 45

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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d 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.