_ST. CUTHBERT'S_
I
_The TURN of The TIDE_
"If you don't get the call you needn't come back here," said my wife to
me as I stood upon the door-sill, bag in hand, and my hard-bought ticket
in my pocket.
"Well, dear one, I would be sure of it if they could only see the
perquisite that goes along with me."
"You must be more serious, Tom, if you expect great calls; but come
inside a minute till I say good-bye. When you brought me first to Canada
we had half a dozen good-byes to every one farewell. Good-bye again, and
if they don't call you they will deserve what they lose."
Thus spoke my wife, and thus was I despatched on the mission that was
big with moment.
It was a wondrous hour that brought to us the invitation which I was now
proceeding to accept. Not that we were unhappy because our salary was
small; we had not lived by bread alone, and our souls were well
content. But my wife had delirious visions, which she affirmed were sane
and reasonable, of her husband's coming yet into his own, and indulged
every now and then in savage and delicious little declarations of the
great misfit, which misfit was in my being the minister of a little
church which afforded a little salary and provoked a little fame.
Her other days had been spent in luxury and amid the refinement and the
pleasures which money only can provide. And when, our wedding day
drawing near apace, I sent her my budget letter, bitterly revealing
impecunious facts at which I had before but darkly hinted, and warning
her of all the sacrifice which lay beyond, she replied with vehement
repudiation of any fears, and in that hour made me rich.
"Cheese and kisses," wrote she, "are considered good fare in my South
land for all who have other resources in their hearts." And I mentally
averred that half of that would be enough for me.
And so we went ahead--oh, progressive step! And we were never poor
again.
But there came a more heroic hour. It was hard, so hard to do, but the
pressure rendered concealment quite impossible, for the note I had
endorsed was handed in for suit. So I told her one twilight hour that
our already limited income must be shared with an unromantic creditor.
There was a little tightening of the lips, then of the arms, then of
those mutual heart cords entangled in their eternal root.
We were boarding then, three rooms in a family hotel, and when I
returned next day at evening I found everything--books, furniture,
piano--all moved to a room upon the topmost story. I was directed
thither by the smiling landlord, more enlightened than I, and I entered
with furtive misgivings in my soul and with visions of that spacious
Southern home before my rueful eyes.
But she was there, radiant and triumphant, still flushed with exercise
of hand and heart, viewing proudly her proof of a new axiom that two or
more bodies may occupy the same space at the selfsame time.
"I am so glad you didn't come before," she said. "I wanted to be all
settled before you saw it. This is just as good as we had before, and
only half the price. Isn't it cozy? And everything just fits. And we are
away from all the noise. And look at that lovely view. And now we can
pay off that horrid note. Aren't you glad?"
"But, Emmeline, my heart breaks to see you caged like this. It is noble
of you, just like you, but I cannot forgive myself that I have brought
you to this," said I, my voice trembling with pain and joy.
"Why, dear one, how can you speak like that? We have everything here,
and each other too, and we shall be caged together."
I kissed that girlish face again and blessed the gift of heaven,
murmuring only, in tones that could not be heard, "He setteth the
solitary in families," and as we went down together I wondered if that
sudden elevation had not brought us nearer heaven than we had been
below.
It was largely owing to this lion-hearted courage that I now found
myself swiftly borne towards the vacant pulpit which yawned in stately
expectation of its weekly candidate.
The invitation "to conduct divine services in St. Cuthbert's, whose
pulpit is now vacant," had come unsought from the kirk session of that
distant temple.
St. Cuthbert's was the stately cathedral of all adjoining
Presbyterianism. It was the pride and crown of a town which stood in
prosperous contentment upon the verge of cityhood. Its history was great
and honourable; its traditions warlike and evangelical; its people
intelligent and intense. Its vast area was famed for its throng of acute
and reflective hearers, almost every man of whom was a sermon taster,
while its officers were the acknowledged possessors of letters patent to
the true ecclesiastical nobility. In my student days, medals and
scholarships were never quoted among the trophies of our divinity men if
it could be justly said of any one that he had preached twice before the
hard heads of St. Cuthbert's. This triumph was recited with the same
reverent air as when men used to say, "He preached before the Queen."
Some hundreds of miles must be traversed before I reached the place, but
only some four-and-twenty hours before I reached the time, of my trial
sermons. Therefore did I convert my car into a study and my unsteady
knee into a desk, giving myself to the rehearsal of those discourses by
which I was to stand or fall. Every weak hand thereof I laboured to
strengthen, and every feeble knee I endeavoured to confirm. And what
motley hours were those I spent on that fast-flying train! All my
reflections tended to devotion, but yet my errand was throbbing with
ambition.
Whereupon I fell into a strange and not unprofitable reverie, painfully
striving to separate my thoughts, the sheep from the goats, and to
reconcile them the one to the other. I knew well enough the human frame
to be persuaded that ambition could not altogether be cast out from the
spirit of a man, which led me to reflect upon its possible place and
purpose if controlled by a master hand beyond the hand of time. I
strove to discover my inmost motive, far behind all other aims, and
consoled myself with the hope that God might make it the dominant and
sovereign one, to which all others might be unconscious ministers, even
as all other lesser ones obey the driving wheel.
I somehow felt that the vision of that radiant face at home, for whom
ambition sprung like a fountain, was in no wise inconsistent with the
holiest work which awaited me on the morrow.
At thought of her, my ambition, earth-born though it was, seemed to be
robed in white and to be unashamedly ministering unto God. And I was
fain to believe at last that this very hope of a larger place was from
Himself, and that He was the shepherd of the sheep and of the goats
alike. Whereupon I fell upon my sermons afresh with a clearer
conscience, which means a stronger mind, and swiftly prayed, even while
I worked, that the Lord of the harvest would winnow my tumultuous
thoughts, garnering the wheat unto Himself and burning the tares with
unquenchable fire.
Onward rushed the hours, and onward rolled the train in its desperate
struggle with them, till the setting sun, victorious over both, reminded
me that I would be in New Jedboro before the dusk deepened into dark.
Then restored I my sermon notes, reburnished and repaired, to the
trusty keeping of my well-worn valise, settling myself for one of those
delicious baths of thought to be truly enjoyed only on the farther side
of toil.
I had but well begun to compose my mind and to forecast the probable
experiences of the morrow, when a rich Scotch voice broke in upon me
with the unmistakable inquiry, "And where micht ye be gaein?"
I responded with the name of New Jedboro, assuming the air of a man who
was bent only upon a welcome visit to long-separated friends. But I had
reckoned without my host. My interrogator was a Scot, with the Scot's
incurable curiosity, always to be estimated by the indifference of his
air. If his face be eloquent of profound unconcern, then may you know
that a fever of inquisitiveness is burning at his heart.
My questioner seemed to scarcely listen for my answer, yet a tutored eye
could tell that he was camping on my trail.
His next interrogation was launched with courteous composure: "Ye'll no'
be the man wha's expeckit in St. Cuthbert's ower the Sabbath?"
I now saw that this was no diluted Scotsman. Bred on Canadian soil, he
was yet original and pure. He had struck the native Scottish note, the
ecclesiastical. Like all his countrymen, he had a native taste for a
minister. His instincts were towards the Kirk, and for all things akin
to Psalm or Presbytery he intuitively took the scent. I have maintained
to this day that he sniffed my sermons from afar, undeceived by the
worldly flavour of my rusty bag.
I collected myself heroically, and replied that I was looking forward to
the discharge of the high duty to which he had referred. Upon this
admission he moved nearer, as a great lawyer stalks his quarry in the
witness box. He eyed me solemnly for a moment, with the look of one
taking aim, and then said slowly--
"I'm no' an elder in that kirk."
"Are you not?" said I, with as generous an intonation of surprise as
conscience would permit.
"I'm no' an elder," he repeated. "But I gang till it," he added.
Then followed a pause, which I dared to break with the remark, "I am
told it is a spacious edifice."
He merely glanced at me, as if to say that all irrelevant conversation
was out of place, and then continued--
"And I'm no' the precentor; I'm no' the man, ye ken, that lifts the
tune."
I nodded sympathetically, trying to convey my sense of the mistake the
congregation had made in its choice of both elders and precentor.
"Ye wud say, to luik at me, that I'm no' an office-seeker, an' ye're
richt. But I haud an office for a' that."
This time I smiled as if light had come to me, and as one who has been
reassured in his belief in an overruling Providence.
"What office do you hold?" said I.
"Ye wudna guess in a twalmonth. I'm no' the treasurer, as ye're
thinkin'--I'm the beadle."
I uttered a brief eulogy upon the honour and responsibility of that
position, pointing out that the beadle had a dignity all his own, as
well as the elders and other officers of the kirk.
He endorsed my views with swift complacent nods.
"That's what I aye think o' when I see the elders on the Sabbath
mornin'," said he; "forbye, there's severals o' _them_, but wha ever
heard tell o' mair than ae beadle? And what's mair, I had raither be a
door-keeper in the Lord's hoose than dwall in tents o' sin. Them's
Dauvit's words, and they aye come to me when I compare mysel' wi' the
elders."
I hurriedly commended his reference to the Scriptures, at the same time
avoiding any share in his rather significant classification, remarking
on the other hand that elders had their place, and that authority was
indispensable in all churches, and the very essence of the Presbyterian
system.
He interrupted me, fearing he had been misunderstood.
"Mind ye," he declared fervently, "I'm no' settin' mysel' up even wi'
the minister. I regard him as mair important than me--far mair
important," he affirmed, with reckless humility, "but the elders, they
are juist common fowk like mysel'. An' at times they are mair than
common. Me an' the minister bear a deal frae the elders. He aye bids me
to bear wi' them, an' I aye bid him no' to mind. I tell him whiles that
we'd meet an' we'd greet whaur the elders cease frae troublin'--them's
the poet's words."
We were now some two miles or so from the town and the church wherein he
exercised his gifts and magnified his office; and my rugged friend,
dismissing the elders for the time, reverted to the inquiry he had seen
fit previously to ignore.
"Ye were askin' me aboot the kirk."
"Yes," said I in a chastened voice, "I asked you if it was not very
large."
"Thae was no' yir exact words, but I ken yir meanin'. It's a gran' kirk,
St. Cuthbert's, an' ye'll need to speak oot--no' to yell, ye ken, for
I'm nigh deefened wi' the roarin' o' the candidates sin' oor kirk was
preached vacant by the Presbytery. Dinna be ower lang; and be sure to
read a' the psalm afore ye sit doon, and hae the sough o' Sinai in yir
discoorse, specially at the mornin' diet; an' aye back up the Scriptures
wi' the catechism, an' hae a word or twa aboot the Covenanters, them as
sealed their testimony wi' their bluid, ye ken. Ye'll tak' ma advice as
kindly; it's mair than likely we'll never meet again gin the morrow's
gone."
I thanked him for his counsel and reached for my bag, at the signal of
escaping steam.
The car door had just closed behind me when I felt a hand upon my arm
and heard a now familiar voice--
"An' dinna pray ower muckle for yir ain devoted folk at hame; an' dinna
ask the King an' Head o' the Kirk to fetch till us a wise under-shepherd
o' the flock."
With a word of additional acknowledgment I stepped on to the station
platform, but my parley with a burly cabman was interrupted by the same
voice whispering in my ear--
"Ye micht mind the elders in yir prayer; gin they were led mair into the
licht it wad dae nae harm to onybody."