Out in the Forty-Five Part 21

"That somebody should come and help me, I suppose."

"True. And who is the Somebody that can help you in this matter?"

I thought, and thought, and could not tell. It seems strange that I did not think what he meant. But I had been so used to think of our Lord Jesus Christ as a Person who had a great deal to do with going to church and the Prayer-book, but nothing at all to do with me, that really I did not think what my uncle meant me to say.

"There is but one Man, my child, who can give you any help. And He longed to help you so much, that He came down from Heaven to do it. You know who I mean now, Cary?"

"You mean our Lord Jesus Christ," I said. "But, Uncle, you say He longed to help? I never knew that, I always thought--"

"You thought He did not wish to help you at all, and that you would have very hard work to persuade Him?"

"Well--something like it," I said, hesitatingly Flora had left the room a moment before, and now she put her head in at the door and called Angus. My Uncle Drummond and I were left alone.

"My dear la.s.sie," said he, as tenderly as if I had been his own child, "you would never have wished to be helped if He had not first wished to help you. But remember, Cary, help is not the right word. The true word is save. You are not a few yards out of the path, and able to turn back at any moment. You are lost. Dear Cary, will you let the Lord find you?"

"Can I hinder Him?" I said.

"Yes, my dear," was the solemn answer. "He allows Himself to be hindered, if you choose the way of death. He will not save you against your will. He demands your joining in that work. Take, again, the emblem of the tank: the man holds out his hands to you; you cannot help yourself out; but you can choose whether you will put your hands in his or not. It will not be his fault if you are drowned; it will be your own."

"Uncle, how am I to put my hands in _His_?"

"Hold them out to Him, Cary. Ask Him, with all your heart, to take you, and make you His own. And if He refuse, let me know."

"I will try, Uncle," I answered. "But you said--does G.o.d _never_ save anybody against his will?"

My Uncle Drummond was silent for a moment.

"Well, Cary, perhaps at times He does. But it is not His usual way of working. And no man has any right to expect it in his own case, though we may be allowed to hope for it in that of another."

I wonder very much now, as I write it all down, how I ever came to say all this to my Uncle Drummond. I never meant it at all when I began. I suppose I got led on from one thing to another. When I came to think of it, I was very grateful to Flora for going away and calling Angus after her.

"But, Uncle," I said, recollecting myself suddenly, "how does anybody know when the Lord has heard him?"

He smiled. "If you were lifted out of the tank and set on dry ground, Cary, do you think you would have much doubt about it?"

"But I could see that, Uncle."

"Take another emblem, then. You love some people very dearly, and there are others whom you do not like at all. You cannot see love and hate.

But have you any doubt whom you love, or whom you dislike?"

"No," said I,--"at least, not when I really love or dislike them very much. But there are people whom I cannot make up my mind about; I neither like nor dislike them exactly."

"Those are generally people of whom you have not seen much, I think,"

said my Uncle Drummond; "or else they are those colourless men and women of whom you say that they have nothing in them. You could not feel so towards a person of decided character, and one whom you knew well."

"No, Uncle; I do not think I could."

"You may rest a.s.sured, my dear, that unless He be an utter Stranger, you will never feel so towards the Lord. When you come to know Him, you must either love or hate Him. You cannot help yourself."

It almost frightened me to hear my Uncle Drummond say that. It must be such a dreadful thing to go wrong on that road!

"Cary," he added suddenly, but very softly, "would you find it difficult to love a man who was going to die voluntarily instead of you?"

"I do not see how I could help it, Uncle," cried I.

"Then how is it," he asked in the same tone, "that you have any difficulty in loving the Man who has died in your stead?"

I thought a minute.

"Uncle," I said, "it does not seem real. The other would."

"In other words, Cary--you do not believe it."

"Do not believe it!" cried I. "Surely, Uncle, I believe in our Lord!

Don't I say the Creed every Sunday?"

"Probably you do, my dear."

"But I do believe it!" cried I again.

"You do believe--what?" said my Uncle Drummond.

"Why, I believe that Christ came down from Heaven, and was crucified, dead, and buried, and rose again, and ascended into Heaven. Of course I believe it, Uncle--every bit of it."

"And what has it to do with you, my dear? It all took place a good while ago, did it not?"

I thought again. "I suppose," I said slowly, "that Christ died to save sinners; and I must be a sinner. But somehow, I don't quite see how it is to be put together. Uncle, it seems like a Chinese puzzle of which I have lost a piece, and none of the others will fit properly. I cannot explain it, and yet I do not quite know why."

"Listen, Cary, and I will tell you why."

I did, with both my ears and all my mind.

"Your mistake is a very common one, little la.s.sie. You are trying to believe what, and you have got to believe whom. If you had to cross a raging torrent, and I offered to carry you over, it would signify nothing whether you knew where I was born, or if I were able to speak Latin. But it would signify a great deal to you whether you knew me; whether you believed that I would carry you safe over, or that I would take the opportunity to drop you into the water and run away. Would it not?"

"Of course it would," I said; "the whole thing would depend on whether I trusted you."

My Uncle Drummond rose and laid his hand on my head--not as Mr Digby used to do, as though he were condescending to a little child; but as if he were blessing me in G.o.d's name. Then he said, in that low, soft, solemn tone which sounds to me so very high and holy, as if an angel spoke to me:--"Cary, dear child, the whole thing depends--your soul and your eternity depend--on whether you trust the Lord Jesus." Then he went out of the room, and left me alone, as if he wanted me to think well about that before he said anything more.

I think something is coming to help me. My Uncle Drummond was late for supper last night--a thing which I could see was very unusual. And when he did come, he was particularly silent and meditative. At length, when supper was over, as we turned our chairs round from the table, and were sitting down again to our work, my Uncle Drummond, who generally goes to his study after supper, sat down among us.

"Young people," said he, with a look on his face which it seemed to me was partly grave and partly diverted, "considering that you are more travelled persons than I, I come to you for information. Have you--any of you--while in England, either seen or heard anything of one Mr George Whitefield, a clergyman of the Church of England, who is commonly reckoned a Methodist?"

Angus made a grimace, and said, "Plenty!"

Flora was doubtful; she thought she had heard his name.