The prayer-meeting on Monday evening was the most exciting ‘occasion’
that had been known on the Loch for years. At this the decision of the
prophets would be made known, as the decision of the Kirk Session had
already been. It was moonlight, that great necessity of all rural
evening gatherings; and from all the corners of the parish came curious
hearers eager to know what was the next step to be taken. Mr. William’s
wife from Wallacebrae was even one of the audience, undeterred by her
husband’s objections. ‘How can I say I’m against them, and my ain wife
led away to hear?’ he said. ‘Hoot away! No to hear them, but to see what
they will do,’ said Mrs. Diarmid; ‘am I to be led away?’
And Isabel, who had begun to place a certain vague hope in Ailie, after
the struggle she had gone through the day before, had made up her mind
to obey the injunction so strongly laid upon her, and to go also. ‘I
would like to hear what they say, and what they are going to do,’ she
said to her sister, in almost the same words which the mistress at
Wallacebrae had given as her excuse, owning no sympathy with the
enthusiasts, but simple curiosity.
‘But you must not go to hear the Word of God as if it were a play,’ said
Margaret, ‘it is always the word of God whoever speaks it. If you are
but going out of curiosity, Isabel, it would be better to bide with me.’
‘I would rather stay with you than do anything else in the world; if you
would but stay with me,’ said Isabel, with wistful looks, ‘and try,
maybe, what Ailie said?’
‘Ye vex me,’ said the dying girl. But the tone was so soft that it could
scarcely be called a reproach. And yet Margaret felt that to remain with
her in the unbroken quiet of the long evening was more than Isabel could
now bear. There were the braes with all their wistful delights to tempt
her forth, and her own unquiet, restless heart, tortured by doubt and
grief, and distracting gleams of the future; and there was perhaps the
lover whom in her heart she yearned for and yet had begun to flee.
‘_She_ is going,’ Isabel said again, after a pause, ‘and you are always
so kind, you say ye want for nothing, Margaret. It is not for curiosity.
They told me I was warned by name. No, I am not going away after them; I
was thinking of different things.’
‘Ever of that miracle?’ said Margaret, with a faint smile, ‘which will
never come. If it was not for you, Isabel, it would be a miracle to me
to be away. But we will no speak of that; leave little Mary with me if
you will go--not that I want anybody, I am real well to-night, and no
breathless to speak of; but it’s ill for the bairn.’
‘Oh, Margaret! I feel whiles as if you thought more of that bairn than
of your own sister!’ said Isabel, with all the hot jealousy of a heart
which felt itself divided and guilty.
‘She _is_ my sister,’ said Margaret, softly; ‘but nobody could ever be
like my Bell; it would be strange if you needed to be told that now.’
And then the impatient, impetuous girl wept and upbraided herself. ‘Oh,
I am not myself, I am not myself!’ she said; ‘I’m all wrong; it’s as if
I could not submit to God.’
‘My bonnie Bell!’ said Margaret, wistfully, gazing at the perplexing
creature, whom she could not understand, and laying her hand upon the
bowed-down head. A little sigh of weariness mingled with her perplexity.
She had come to that point when peace is demanded by worn-out nature;
and those tumults were too much for her. ‘Put on something warm,’ she
said, ‘and tell _her_ she is not to go too far in; but be home soon and
let me hear what’s passed. If Ailie speaks to you, tell her I’m real
well and content.’
‘Will I tell her you are better? Oh, will I say you’re mending,
Margaret?’
‘Ye cannot think how you vex me,’ said poor Margaret, sighing, ‘you more
than all. Why should I mend? I am far on my journey now, and why should
I come back just to tread all the weary way over again another time?
Tell Ailie I’m winning home. The road is uphill, and maybe the last bit
is the steepest; but I am real content. If you will not say that, say
nothing, Isabel. And if you are going, it is time for you to go.’
‘But I’ll go and leave you angry, Margaret,’ cried Isabel; ‘angry and
vexed at me?’
‘No, no; no angry,’ said Margaret, wearily. The hectic spot had come
into her cheek. She laid her head back on the cushions with again a
weary sigh. What wonder if she longed for the end--she to whom life had
no longer anything to give? She closed her eyes for a moment, and
Isabel, feeling more guilty than ever, stole away to warn her
stepmother, and to tie on her cottage bonnet and great grey cloak.
‘You’ll watch Margaret that she wants nothing; but you’ll not speak to
her to wear her out,’ she said to little Mary, ever jealous of her
sister’s love.
The schoolhouse was all dark when the crowd reached it. Instead of the
usual preparation for them the door was locked, and the Dominie stood on
the step, looking down upon the dark groups as they began to arrive and
gather round, with the patience of the rural mind. ‘The door’s no open
yet.’ ‘The lights are no lightet.’ ‘I tell’t ye, for a’ your grumbling,
we would be here soon enough.’ ‘It’s no often Ailie’s late.’ ‘And what’s
the Dominie waiting there like a muckle ghost,’ murmured the crowd.
Mr. Galbraith, to tell the truth, was in no desirable position. He had
the key in his hand, but that could not be seen; and he was charged with
the dangerous mission of temporising, and commissioned to coax the
multitude out of their excitement, and persuade them to go quietly home.
If he did not succeed, there was always the key to fall back upon. ‘In
the last place, if better is not to be made of it, I’ll let them have
their will,’ he had said. Of all offices in the world the least
satisfactory. Already he had begun to see that it was a mistake, but it
was now too late to withdraw. ‘They should have found a’ dark and been
treated to no explanations,’ he said to himself, as he stood with his
back against the door and gazed on them. A mob is not an easy thing to
deal with in any circumstances; and a religious mob, spurred up to the
highest point of spiritual excitement, is the most dangerous of all. Had
it not been for the large leaven of mere curiosity which kept down the
pitch of agitation, things might have gone badly for the Dominie. He
cleared his throat a great many times before he screwed himself to the
point of addressing them. The prophets themselves had not yet appeared,
and if it might be possible to dismiss the people before the arrival of
their leaders, a great point would be gained. Spurred by this thought he
at last broke the silence.
‘My friends,’ said the Dominie; and there was an immediate hush of the
scraping feet, and the coughs and whispers of impatience. The moon had
gone in and all was dark, so that he could distinguish none of the
faces turned to him, and felt, as few orators can do, the sense of that
vague abstraction, a crowd unbroken by the glance of any exceptional
sympathetic face. ‘My friends, I’m here to say a word to you from the
Kirk Session. Those that are put over ye in the Lord have taken much
thought and counsel together to see what’s best to be done. I am
reflecting upon nobody. It’s not my place to tell you who you are to
hear, or when you are to forbear. But I appeal to those that are heads
of families if there have not been too many of these meetings? The human
mind is not equal to such a strain. I’ve studied it all my life, and ye
may believe me when I speak. There must be a Sabbath for the body, and
the mind’s mair delicate than the body. But any night, every night, have
ye no assembled here, to listen to the most agitating addresses, given,
I do not gainsay, with what is more touching than oratory, with the
whole conviction of the soul. My friends, ye have but a delicate machine
to manage. Your minds are no like your ploughs that are simple things to
guide. They’re like the new-fangled steam-engines, full of delicate bits
of wheels, and cranks, and corners----’
At this moment a figure glided up to him out of the crowd. The Dominie
divined at once whose were those swift and noiseless steps, and felt
that his oratory and his object were defeated. She came and placed
herself beside him holding up her hand, and at that moment the moon
burst forth and shone full upon Ailie’s face, which in that light was
white as marble, with the full large lambent eyes, almost projected from
it, looking out upon the eager spectators.
‘Come na here with your carnal wisdom,’ said Ailie, putting up her hand
as if to stop him. ‘Oh come na here! What’s learning, and knowledge, and
a’ your science afore the fear of the Lord? And how dare ye stop His
servants from constant prayer to Him, and saving souls? Will ye quench
the Spirit, O man, with your vain words? Think ye we’re sae little in
earnest that we want biggit walls to shelter us, or your fine candles to
give us light? The Lord is our light,’ cried the prophetess, stretching
out her hand towards the moon that shone full upon her. And there was a
rustle and stir in the crowd which told the instant response of the
audience.
The Dominie’s own feelings were not beyond the reach of such an
apostrophe. He moved uneasily from one foot to another, and began to
fumble in his coat-pocket for the key, the last concession which he was
prepared to make.
‘I am saying nothing against that, my good lass,’ he said; ‘not a word
am I saying, but that for you and the like of you there’s too much of
this; and that’s the Kirk Session’s opinion. You shall have plenty of
opportunity--plenty of occasion, but, my dear, for the sake of your own
life, and for all the rest of them, not every night----’
‘Friends,’ said another voice suddenly from another quarter, ‘it is
nothing wonderful if persecution has come upon us. I have expected it
from the first. The hand of this world is against the servants of God,
and ever will be. We are driven forth like our forefathers to the
hill-side. The Church has shut to her doors against us. I told you it
would be so. I told you a lukewarm, unawakened Church would never bear
that within her bosom that was a reproach to her. And what of that?’ the
speaker went on with growing excitement, ‘there is God’s word that they
cannot drive us out of, and God’s lights that He has set for us in the
heavens, and His ear that is ever open, and His hand that is ready to
save. On your knees, my brethren! What hinders that we should pray to
Him here?’
Then there arose a murmur among the crowd: ‘It’s Mr. John!’ ‘Eh, it’s
the days of the persecution come back.’ ‘We’ll no thole’t.’ ‘Who’s the
minister or the Kirk Session either to stand up against the Christian
people?’ ‘And quench the Spirit?’ cried a voice above the rest; ‘do they
mind that’s the unpardonable sin?’
Mr. Galbraith made vain efforts to speak; the murmurs rose higher and
higher, and began at last to direct themselves to him. ‘Is the like of
that weirdless Dominie to stand against ye a’, feeble loons?’ cried a
woman. ‘Wha’s he that he should daur to stand against us?’ ‘Let me at
him!’ ‘Eh, lads, canny, canny, he’s an auld man.’ Such were the cries of
indignation and alarm that rose in the stillness. The remnant of people
who had been left in the village came rushing forth to see what was the
matter. Mr. Lothian was at the other end of the parish, but young
Stapylton, who had just returned from a fruitless ramble on the braes,
came lounging to the Manse gate. The moon went suddenly behind a cloud,
leaving all that darkling mass confused and struggling. Then it was that
the Dominie made himself heard. ‘Lads,’ he shouted, his voice reaching
the entire crowd though he was himself unseen, ‘I’ve trained ye, and I’m
reaping the credit. If it was for your sakes ye might tear the auld man
in pieces before you should have your will. Dinna think ye can frighten
me. If I give the key to Ailie, it is for the women’s sake; and the
bairns. Women, are ye mad that ye bring bairns here?’
‘It’s because their souls are mair precious to us than a’ the world,’
cried some mother in the crowd. ‘It’s little enough you teach them,’
cried another. ‘Where would they hear the Gospel if no in the meetings?’
‘No in the kirk, wi’ a moderate minister and his moral essays.’ ‘And now
when we’ve found the Word of God ye would drive us to the hill-side to
seek it.’ ‘They would drive us into the Loch if they had their will,’
cried the crowd.
Isabel Diarmid, with all her sensibilities in arms, humiliated to the
dust, indignant, terrified, stood trembling in the midst of this
seething, agitated mass, thrust about by its sudden movements, ready to
cry or to faint, feeling her self-respect for ever lost, no better than
‘a common lass’ among the crowd. She felt herself drawn along by the
movement of the people round her rushing in one body for the door,
which, with much noise of the key in the keyhole, had at length been
opened. Clinging to her stepmother, vainly resisting, overwhelmed with
shame, she felt herself swept out of the fresh air into the dark
schoolroom no longer an individual with a will of her own, but a
helpless portion of the crowd. When the first pioneers succeeded in
lighting one miserable candle to throw a glimmer over the scene, its
feeble rays gave no one any assistance, but only cast a wretched twinkle
of revelation, showing the struggle--the benches pushed aside by the
blind, uncertain crowd; the throng pouring in darkling through the black
doorway. By degrees a few other feeble twinkles began to glitter about
the room, and the people subsided into seats, with much commotion and
struggling.
The strange gloom, the flicker of the candles, the eager look of all
those faces turned towards the Dominie’s table, at which stood Mr. John;
the thrill of excitement and expectation among them, overcame Isabel’s
susceptible nature. All her shame disappeared before the extraordinary
fire of popular emotion which she had suddenly caught. If she could be
said to have hated any man in the world, Mr. John would have been the
man. And yet she sat and gazed at him as if he had been an angel of
fate.
‘It’s come at last,’ he said; ‘my brothers, I’ve been looking for it
long. None can live godly in Christ Jesus but suffer persecutions. And
Satan has found his instruments. Two nights had not gone from your first
meeting in this place when the Lord showed me how it would be. But are
we to give up our sacred standard because the heathen rage and the
people imagine a vain thing--aye, a vain thing! As well might they bind
the Loch that the flood should not come up. Has not the Spirit of the
Lord come like a flood upon this parish; and they try to stop Him with a
key turned in the lock and a shut door! But the Lord has opened us a
door, great and effectual. Praise Him, my friends, that He has given us
the victory. The horse and his rider has He overthrown in the sea----’
‘But this is awfu’ irregular,’ cried another personage, who rose
suddenly out of the darkness, and was discovered after a time to be
Samuel Diarmid the elder. He came out of the front row, which was merely
a range of dark heads to the people behind, and stepped before the
prophet with a small Bible in his hand. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘though
Mr. Galbraith took upon him to shut ye out o’ this public place
belonging to the parish, I am here in my capacity as an elder o’ this
parish to preside among ye. I hope there’s none here will dispute my
right. We’ll open the meeting in the usual way by singing to the praise
of God in the Psalms; and after the meeting’s lawfully constituted, ye
shall hear whatever word the Lord’s servant may have to say.’
At this announcement, there arose a sudden rustle and resolute thumbing
of the Psalms, which were attached to everybody’s Bible. The audience
found the place conscientiously, though only a few could by any
possibility see the page. Samuel himself led the singing, standing with
his book in his hand, and his figure swaying to and forward with the
cadence of the ‘tune;’ and seated in darkling rows, with their books
held in every possible slope to reach the light, the audience lifted up
their voices and sang one of those strange measures at which musicians
stand aghast. Isabel sang it with all her heart. No criticism occurred
to her. Her ear was not shocked by the false notes, the curious growls
and creaks of utterance around her.
And then she closed her little Testament, and stood up, covering her
face with her hands for the prayer. It was the prayer of a man having
authority which Samuel Diarmid poured forth; and in that darkness
through which no man could make out his neighbour’s face, the crowd
stood and listened. His prayer was a kind of liturgy in itself. He
prayed for her Sacred Majesty, as is the custom in Scotland, and for the
Government and magistrates, and every class of men who could be put
together in a general supplication. There was something half-comic,
half-solemn in his formality; but it did not strike his audience as
anything peculiar. They drew a long breath when it was ended, with
conscious but unexpressed relief.
‘He’s ay awfu’ dry and fusionless in his prayers,’ Jean whispered to
Isabel, ‘but wait till it’s Ailie’s turn.’
When they had all resumed their seats, the speaker opened his Bible and
began to read ‘a chapter.’ For some part of this, all went on with
perfect quiet and decorum. You might have been in the kirk, Isabel said
to herself, had it not been so dark, and the people so thronged
together. The thought was passing through her mind when all at once a
crash of sound startled her. She rose to her feet in wonder, gazing
where it might come from; but to her amazement no one else moved. Heads
were raised a little, the attention of the mass was quickened, but
nobody except herself thought, as Isabel did, that something terrible
had happened. Who could it be that dared to interrupt the worship? But
while she gazed and listened, there suddenly arose another sound; this
time it was a voice distinct and musical. And Isabel, relieved, sat down
again, and lent an attentive ear. The next moment she was once more on
her feet in a confusion too great to be restrained. ‘What is she saying?
what is she saying?’ she whispered in her stepmother’s ear. Jean,
habituated to the wonder, was scandalised by this excitement. She
twitched at Isabel’s cloak to drag her back to her seat. ‘Whisht! sit
down. It’s nothing but the tongue,’ she said. The girl strained her eyes
upon the listening crowd, but no one was moved as she was. She dropped
back appalled into her seat. It was Ailie who spoke; and in the intense
silence and darkness poured forth an address full of that eloquence of
intonation and expression which is perceptible in every language. ‘Is it
Latin? is it Hebrew?’ Isabel asked herself, moved by wonder, and awe,
and admiration, into an indescribable excitement. When the voice
suddenly paused, and changed and turned into ordinary utterance, there
was a little rustle of roused attention among the crowd; but Isabel
leant back upon the wall and burst into silent tears. The excitement had
been more than she could bear. When she came to herself the same fresh
youthful voice was making the room ring, and compelled her attention. It
was like bringing down to ordinary life the vague grace of youthful
fancies. When she awoke from the surprise of her excitement, and found
that Ailie was speaking so as everybody understood her, the wonder and
the mystery were gone.
‘O ye of little faith,’ cried Ailie, ‘wherefore do ye doubt? are ye
feared to go forth from the fine kirk and the comfortable meeting to the
hills and the fields? Where was it He went to commune with His Father,
that is our example? was it to biggit land, or lightsome town? No; but
to the cauld hill-side in the dark, where nothing was but God and the
stars looking down out of the lonesome sky. O the puir creatures we
are--the puir creatures! Think ye it’s for the good of this bit corner
of the earth that He has given me strength to rise up from my bed, and
poured forth the gifts o’ tongues, and teaching and prophesying upon
this parish? I was like you. He knows how laith--laith I was to come out
of the kirk I was christened in, and open my heart to the weary, wanting
world. But I take ye a’ to witness it’s no us that have begun. They have
lifted up their hands against the ark of the Lord. They’ve tried their
best to stop us in our ministry and in the salvation of souls. They’ve
scoffed and they’ve said where are the signs o’ His appearing. Look
round ye, friends, and see. Me that never learned more than my Bible--I
speak wi’ tongues--I see the things that are to come. Think ye that is
for nought? It fell on your sons and your daughters in your very
presence and is that for nought? Bear ye witness, friends, that I take
up my commission this night. Go forth into the world and preach the
Gospel to every creature, that is the command that’s given to me. Throw
off your bonds, ye that sleep--arise and let us go forth! It’s no a
question o’ a parish, or o’ a village, or o’ a kirk or a meeting, but of
His coming to be prepared and the world to be saved.’
Whether this wild but sweet voice had come to a natural pause, or
whether it was suddenly interrupted and broken by the same extraordinary
burst of sounds which had been heard before, Isabel, terrified out of
all her self-control, could not tell. She gave a suppressed scream, as
Mr. John stood up with his rigid arms stretched out and his features
convulsed with the passion of utterance whatever it was. The sound which
had alarmed her came from him, bursting from his lips as if by some
force which had no relation to his own will or meaning. The cry came
from him like the groanings and mutterings of a volcano, moved by some
unseen power. Isabel clung to her stepmother in her terror and hid her
face in her hands.
Such sounds echoing through the darkened room, over all those hushed and
eager listeners, were impressive enough to overawe any lively
imagination; and it was with her head bent down on Jean Campbell’s
shoulder, and her eyes closely shut, that Isabel heard the inarticulate
horror change into words.
‘Hear the voice of the handmaid of the Lord,’ cried Mr. John. ‘The Lord
sent His servant to her with a word from Him, saying, Go forth and
convert the world; but she would not listen. She said, Who am I that I
should go forth and preach? Thy handmaid is a child, she said. But lo!
the Lord himself hath taught her. Not to you only, O people of Loch
Diarmid; you have had the first-fruits, but the ingathering is not yet!
Like those that have not long to be with you, we turn and cry--Repent!
Repent, and be converted. You have waited long. And God has sent you
prophets, miracles, and wonders, in your midst. And lo! your moment of
privilege is nearly over, and He sends His servants forth. Repent! Oh,
that my voice were a trumpet, that it might ring into your hearts! Oh,
that it were as a rushing, mighty wind to sweep you to the Lord! We are
going forth in His name. We are going out upon the world. Give us
first-fruits--first-fruits for the Lord! Let us pray! Let us pray! Let
us pray!’
Then the darkling mass rose to their feet, and the enthusiast poured
forth his prayer. Isabel could scarcely restrain herself from joining in
the subdued outcries round her. By degrees, time and place, and all
mortal restrictions, vanished from her excited mind. What roused her was
Ailie’s voice, once more soft, pleading, sympathetic. A voice that
calmed her wild emotions, and brought her back in some degree to
herself.
‘I have wondered and wondered, and asked of the Lord,’ said Ailie, ‘what
for His gift of speaking wi’ tongues should have come to me--me that
kent nothing, that had so little way of speaking forth His praise. But
it has pleased Him to show me what He aye says, that out o’ the mouth o’
babes and sucklings His praise is perfected. Eh, neebors! I ken one
that’s like the angels of the Lord! She wants faith, but she wants
nothing else. She’s wearying, wearying to be at hame with the Lord, and
hasna the heart to rise up off her bed, and come forth wi’ me to the
salvation of men. You a’ know her as well as me! Maybe it’s Margaret’s
prayers that have brought the Spirit on this parish. Ye know how she has
prayed for us up bye at the burn, wrestling wi’ the Lord like Jacob. Eh,
freends, if I had Margaret I would go forth light as the air! Lord, give
her faith! Lord, raise her up! Lord, send thy blessed creature forth
with us! Lord, Lord, listen, and give her faith! Oh, my freends, will ye
no pray?’
At this moment Isabel’s emotion became altogether uncontrollable. It
seemed to herself as if the inspiration she had witnessed had suddenly
come upon her. She held up her hands wildly out of her dark corner where
no one could see. Then a scream burst from her lips.
‘No,’ she cried out, in a voice so strained with passion that no one
would have recognised it for hers. ‘No, no--not for Margaret; she shall
not live, she shall have her will. Leave her in peace, and let her die.’
Isabel fell like a dead creature into her stepmother’s arms, not
unconscious, with all her senses still wildly vivid, but trembling like
a leaf, and helpless as an infant. Then there was a moment of terrified
silence, and heads soon turned timidly round in the darkness to search
for the new prophet. Ailie, standing with her arms uplifted in sight of
them all, gazed intently into the gloom with her great lambent eyes,
waiting and listening for some moments after the voice had ceased. Then
the prophetess suddenly sank into the girl by a transition so
extraordinary that it caught once more the wavering attention of the
audience attracted from her by the new miracle. Her arms fell by her
side, a flood of tears came pouring from her eyes.
‘Oh, Lord, Lord, Lord! ye have never refused me before!’ said Ailie,
with a wild cry of reproach, and sank upon the floor in a burst of
weeping so helplessly natural and girl-like that the excited group
around her gazed at each other in dismay.
Her sobs were audible through all the wild supplication that followed.
But Isabel, worn out, was conscious of little more until she felt
herself drawn into the fresh air, and saw the moonlight lying white upon
the braes.