Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood

“We are to ask God for what we want. If we don’t want a thing, we are only acting like pagans to speak as if we did, and call it prayer, and think we are pleasing him.”

I was silent. My father resumed.

“I fancy the old man we are going to see found out the tune of his life long ago.”

“Is he a very wise man then, father?”

“That depends on what you mean by wise. I should call him a wise man, for to find out that tune is the truest wisdom. But he’s not a learned man at all. I doubt if he ever read a book but the Bible, except perhaps the Pilgrim’s Progress. I believe he has always been very fond of that. You like that—don’t you, Ranald?”

“I’ve read it a good many times, father. But I was a little tired of it before I got through it last time.”

“But you did read it through—did you—the last time, I mean?”

“Oh yes, father. I never like to leave the loose end of a thing hanging about.”

“That’s right, my boy; that’s right. Well, I think you’d better not open the book again for a long time—say twenty years at least. It’s a great deal too good a book to let yourself get tired of. By that time I trust you will be able to understand it a great deal better than you can at present.”

I felt a little sorry that I was not to look at the Pilgrim’s Progress for twenty years; but I am very glad of it now.

“We must not spoil good books by reading them too much,” my father added. “It is often better to think about them than to read them; and it is best never to do either when we are tired of them. We should get tired of the sunlight itself, beautiful as it is, if God did not send it away every night. We’re not even fit to have moonlight always. The moon is buried in the darkness every month. And because we can bear nothing for any length of time together, we are sent to sleep every night, that we may begin fresh again in the morning.”

“I see, father, I see,” I answered.

We talked on until we came in sight of John Jamieson’s cottage.

What a poor little place it was to look at—built of clay, which had hardened in the sun till it was just one brick! But it was a better place to live in than it looked, for no wind could come through the walls, although there was plenty of wind about. Three little windows looked eastward to the rising sun, and one to the south: it had no more. It stood on the side of a heathy hill, which rose up steep behind it, and bending round sheltered it from the north. A low wall of loose stones enclosed a small garden, reclaimed from the hill, where grew some greens and cabbages and potatoes, with a flower here and there between. In summer it was pleasant enough, for the warm sun makes any place pleasant. But in winter it must have been a cold dreary place indeed. There was no other house within sight of it. A little brook went cantering down the hill close to the end of the cottage, singing merrily.

“It is a long way to the sea, but by its very nature the water will find it at last,” said my father, pointing to the stream as we crossed it by the single stone that was its bridge.

He had to bend his head low to enter the cottage. An old woman, the sick man’s wife, rose from the side of the chimney to greet us. My father asked how John was.

“Wearing away,” was her answer. “But he’ll be glad to see you.”

We turned in the direction in which her eyes guided us. The first thing I saw was a small withered-looking head, and the next a withered-looking hand, large and bony. The old man lay in a bed closed in with boards, so that very little light fell upon him; but his hair glistened silvery through the gloom. My father drew a chair beside him. John looked up, and seeing who it was, feebly held out his hand. My father took it and stroked it, and said:

“Well, John, my man, you’ve had a hard life of it.”

“No harder than I could bear,” said John.

“It’s a grand thing to be able to say that,” said my father.

“Oh sir! for that matter, I would go through it all again, if it was his will, and willingly. I have no will but his, sir.”

“Well, John, I wish we could all say the same. When a man comes to that, the Lord lets him have what he wants. What do you want now, John?”

“To depart and be with the Lord. It wouldn’t be true, sir, to say that I wasn’t weary. It seems to me, if it’s the Lord’s will, I’ve had enough of this life. Even if death be a long sleep, as some people say, till the judgment, I think I would rather sleep, for I’m very weary. Only there’s the old woman there! I don’t like leaving her.”

“But you can trust God for her too, can’t you?”

“It would be a poor thing if I couldn’t, sir.”

“Were you ever hungry, John—dreadfully hungry, I mean?”

“Never longer than I could bear,” he answered. “When you think it’s the will of God, hunger doesn’t get much hold of you, sir.”

“You must excuse me, John, for asking so many questions. You know God better than I do, and I want my young man here to know how strong the will of God makes a man, old or young. He needn’t care about anything else, need he?”

“There’s nothing else to care about, sir. If only the will of God be done, everything’s all right, you know. I do believe, sir, God cares more for me than my old woman herself does, and she’s been as good a wife to me as ever was. Young gentleman, you know who says that God numbers the very hairs of our heads? There’s not many of mine left to number,” he added with a faint smile, “but there’s plenty of yours. You mind the will of God, and he’ll look after you. That’s the way he divides the business of life.”

I saw now that my father’s talk as we came, had been with a view to prepare me for what John Jamieson would say. I cannot pretend, however, to have understood the old man at the time, but his words have often come back to me since, and helped me through trials pretty severe, although, like the old man, I have never found any of them too hard to bear.

“Have you no child to come and help your wife to wait upon you?” my father asked.

“I have had ten, sir, but only three are left alive. There’ll be plenty to welcome me home when I go. One of the three’s in Canada, and can’t come. Another’s in Australia, and he can’t come. But Maggie’s not far off, and she’s got leave from her mistress to come for a week—only we don’t want her to come till I’m nearer my end. I should like her to see the last of her old father, for I shall be young again by the next time she sees me, please God, sir. He’s all in all—isn’t he, sir?”

“True, John. If we have God, we have all things; for all things are his and we are his. But we mustn’t weary you too much. Thank you for your good advice.”

“I beg your pardon, sir; I had no intention of speaking like that. I never could give advice in all my life. I always found it was as much as I could do to take the good advice that was given to me. I should like to be prayed for in the church next Sunday, sir, if you please.”

“But can’t you pray for yourself, John?”

“Yes, sir; but I would like to have some spiritual gift because my friends asked it for me. Let them pray for more faith for me. I want more and more of that. The more you have, the more you want. Don’t you, sir? And I mightn’t ask enough for myself, now I’m so old and so tired. I sleep a great deal, sir.”

“Then don’t you think God will take care to give you enough, even if you shouldn’t ask for enough?” said my father.

“No doubt of that. But you see I am able to think of it now, and so I must put things in a train for the time when I shan’t be able to think of it.”

Something like this was what John said; and although I could not understand it then, my father spoke to me several times about it afterwards, and I came to see how the old man wanted to provide against the evil time by starting prayers heavenward beforehand, as it were.

My father prayed by his bedside, pulled a parcel or two from his pocket for his wife, and then we walked home together in silence. My father was not the man to heap words upon words and so smother the thought that lay in them. He had taken me for the sake of the lesson I might receive, and he left it to strike root in my mind, which he judged more likely if it remained undisturbed.

CHAPTER XXVII

Turkey’s Trick

When we came to the farm on our way home, we looked in to see Kirsty, but found the key in the door, indicating that she had gone out. As we left the yard, we saw a strange-looking woman, to all appearance a beggar, approaching. She had a wallet over her shoulder, and walked stooping with her eyes on the ground, nor lifted them to greet us—behaviour which rarely showed itself in our parish. My father took no notice, but I could not help turning to look after the woman. To my surprise she stood looking after us, but the moment I turned, she turned also and walked on. When I looked again she had vanished. Of course she must have gone into the farm-yard. Not liking the look of her, and remembering that Kirsty was out, I asked my father whether I had not better see if any of the men were about the stable. He approved, and I ran back to the house. The door was still locked. I called Turkey, and heard his voice in reply from one of the farthest of the cow-houses. When I had reached it and told him my story, he asked if my father knew I had come back. When he heard that he did know, he threw down his pitchfork, and hastened with me. We searched every house about the place, but could find no sign whatever of the woman.

“Are you sure it wasn’t all a fancy of your own, Ranald?” said Turkey.

“Quite sure. Ask my father. She passed as near us as you are to me now.”

Turkey hurried away to search the hayloft once more, but without success; and at last I heard my father calling me.

I ran to him, and told him there was no woman to be seen.

“That’s odd,” he said. “She must have passed straight through the yard and got out at the other side before you went in. While you were looking for her, she was plodding away out of sight. Come along, and let us have our tea.”

I could not feel quite satisfied about it, but, as there was no other explanation, I persuaded myself that my father was right.