Graeme pulled me away, and without a word we went into the office and drew up to the little stove. Graeme was greatly moved.
'Did you ever see anything like that?' he asked. 'Old Nelson! the hardest, savagest, toughest old sinner in the camp, on his knees before a lot of men!'
'Before God,' I could not help saying, for the thing seemed very real to me. The old man evidently felt himself talking to some one.
'Yes, I suppose you're right,' said Graeme doubtfully; 'but there's a lot of stuff I can't swallow.'
'When you take medicine you don't swallow the bottle,' I replied, for his trouble was not mine.
'If I were sure of the medicine, I wouldn't mind the bottle, and yet it acts well enough,' he went on. 'I don't mind Lachlan; he's a Highland mystic, and has visions, and Sandy's almost as bad, and Baptiste is an impulsive little chap. Those don't count much. But old man Nelson is a cool-blooded, level-headed old fellow; has seen a lot of life, too. And then there's Craig. He has a better head than I have, and is as hot-blooded, and yet he is living and slaving away in that hole, and really enjoys it. There must be something in it.'
'Oh, look here, Graeme,' I burst out impatiently; 'what's the use of your talking like that? Of course there's something in it. Ihere's everything in it. The trouble with me is I can't face the music. It calls for a life where a fellow must go in for straight, steady work, self-denial, and that sort of thing; and I'm too Bohemian for that, and too lazy. But that fellow Craig makes one feel horribly uncomfortable.'
Graeme put his head on one side, and examined me curiously.
'I believe you're right about yourself. You always were a luxurious beggar. But that's not where it catches me.'
We sat and smoked and talked of other things for an hour, and then turned in. As I was dropping off I was roused by Graeme's voice--'Are you going to the preparatory service on Friday night?'
'Don't know,' I replied rather sleepily.
'I say, do you remember the preparatory service at home?' There was something in his voice that set me wide awake.
'Yes. Rather terrific, wasn't it? But I always felt better after it,' I replied.
'To me'--he was sitting up in bed now--'to me it was like a call to arms, or rather like a call for a forlorn hope. None but volunteers wanted. Do you remember the thrill in the old governor's voice as he dared any but the right stuff to come on?'
'We'll go in on Friday night,' I said.
And so we did. Sandy took a load of men with his team, and Graeme and I drove in the light sleigh.
The meeting was in the church, and over a hundred men were present.
There was some singing of familiar hymns at first, and then Mr.
Craig read the same story as we had heard in the stable, that most perfect of all parables, the Prodigal Son. Baptiste nudged Sandy in delight, and whispered something, but Sandy held his face so absolutely expressionless that Graeme was moved to say--'Look at Sandy! Did you ever see such a graven image? Something has hit him hard.'
The men were held fast by the story. The voice of the reader, low, earnest, and thrilling with the tender pathos of the tale, carried the words to our hearts, while a glance, a gesture, a movement of the body gave us the vision of it all as he was seeing it.
Then, in ******st of words, he told us what the story meant, holding us the while with eyes, and voice, and gesture. He compelled us scorn the gay, heartless selfishness of the young fool setting forth so jauntily from the broken home; he moved our pity and our sympathy for the young profligate, who, broken and deserted, had still pluck enough to determine to work his way back, and who, in utter desperation, at last gave it up; and then he showed us the homecoming--the ragged, heart-sick tramp, with hesitating steps, stumbling along the dusty road, and then the rush of the old father, his garments fluttering, and his voice heard in broken cries. I see and hear it all now, whenever the words are read.
He announced the hymn, 'Just as I am,' read the first verse, and then went on: 'There you are, men, every man of you, somewhere on the road. Some of you are too lazy'--here Graeme nudged me--'and some of you haven't got enough yet of the far country to come back.
May there be a chance for you when you want to come! Men, you all want to go back home, and when you go you'll want to put on your soft clothes, and you won't go till you can go in good style; but where did the prodigal get his good clothes?' Quick came the answer in Baptiste's shrill voice--'From de old fadder!'
No one was surprised, and the minister went on--'Yes! and that's where we must get the good, clean heart, the good, clean, brave heart, from our Father. Don't wait, but, just as you are, come. Sing.'
They sang, not loud, as they would 'Stand Up,' or even 'The Sweet By and By,' but in voices subdued, holding down the power in them.
After the singing, Craig stood a moment gazing down at the men, and then said quietly--'Any man want to come? You all might come. We all must come.'
Then, sweeping his arm over the audience, and turning half round as if to move off, he cried, in a voice that thrilled to the heart's core--'Oh! come on! Let's go back!'
