XXII

"_The MILLS of The GODS_"

Margaret was home again. She had been gone from us two immeasurable

days. It was Mr. Blake who rang the bell, for it was his house had

sheltered her when my cruel anger drove her from my own. Need and sorrow

never turned to him in vain.

When the door was opened, Margaret stood before it alone. Her mother it

was who opened unto her, for this is woman's oldest and holiest

avocation, door-keeper unto wandering feet. In all His delicate missions

woman is God's deputy.

Through all my narrative of this sad affair I have said but little of

Margaret's mother, but I know my readers have discerned her presence

amid it all, as one discerns a brooding mountain through the mist. The

great background of every tragedy is a woman's stately sorrow.

I had been visiting the sick, far more for my sake than for theirs, and

was not home when Margaret returned. But a nameless fragrance greeted me

at the door, and in my study I found Margaret in her mother's arms. The

latter quietly withdrew and the compact between father and daughter was

soon complete. It was of mutual surrender, wherein is mutual peace.

Margaret's only word was that she could not give her father up--nor

Angus--that I must say nothing more about her love and that we must

wait--together. Which was all sweet enough to me, for she was mine

again, and our manse light had been rekindled.

For the rest, I was willing to wait, on which after all hangs the

reality of all joy or sorrow. Every grief hath that opportunity of cure;

every joy that peril of vicissitude. Till time hath ceased from her

travail, no man can tell her offspring's sex, whether it be rugged care,

or sweet and tender joy.

Meantime, Margaret nestled again within the old tender place and we both

struggled to nourish our phantom joy. Counterfeit though we both

discerned it, yet it passed unchallenged between us and at least kept

our souls' commerce from decay. Counterfeit I have called it, for the

tenure of another's love was upon her; and her stay with us was like

that of a sailor lad who is for a time ashore, waiting for the tardy

tide.

* * * * *

The ordination Sabbath was aglow with holy light. God surely loves

Presbyterian high days, for they are nearly always beautiful. St.

Cuthbert's was filled long before eleven with a reverent and expectant

congregation. Five new elders had been elected, three of them their

father's successors, for this was a common custom in New Jedboro, and

apostolic succession in disguise was in high favour amongst us. Another

was a man of seventy or more, for every ordination must recognize the

stalwarts whose days of activity were past but whose time for honour was

at hand. The remaining elder-elect was Angus Strachan. His choice by the

congregation had been unanimous and cordial. His examination by the

Session had resulted in hearty confirmation. Our manse tragedy was

unknown to any of the elders except Mr. Blake, who preserved complete

silence throughout the interview. The ordeal was painful beyond words to

me--but it was over, and Angus sat in the front pew with the other four,

awaiting ordination to their sacred office.

We had sung the psalm which from time immemorial Presbyterian ministers

have announced on all ecclesiastical occasions, the hundred and second

psalm, the second version, from the thirteenth verse, reading over

again, as their habit is, the first two lines:

"Thou shalt arise and mercy yet

Thou to Mount Zion shalt extend;"

the venerable Dr. Inglis of Moffat had preached the sermon from the

text:--"Feed the flock of God which is among you," and the elders elect

took their places before the pulpit.

I addressed them in what I considered fitting terms, recalling the great

traditions of the church they were called to serve and the noble labours

of the godly men whose mantles had now fallen upon themselves. I

referred to our precious legacy, bequeathed to us from the hands of

Covenanters, and a reverent hush throughout the whole congregation

applauded the names of Renwick and Peden and Cameron, as they fell from

my lips.

Then all the elders took their places beside me, for the act of

ordination was about to be performed. This consisted of prayer and the

laying on of hands--not of the minister's hands alone, for we in St.

Cuthbert's adhered to the ancient Scottish mode of ordination by the

laying on of the hands of the entire Session.

The candidates kneeled before us, Angus on my right, having changed his

place for some unapparent reason, soon to be abundantly revealed. The

hands first outstretched towards his bended head were those of Mr.

Blake. Whereupon an awful thing befell us; for the solemn stillness of

the kirk was broken by the ringing of a voice aflame with

passion:--"Take back your hand--touch not a hair of my head. Go cleanse

your hand. Go purify your heart--they are both polluted. Whited

sepulchre, give up your dead--let the rotting memories walk forth. Go

wash another's blood from your guilty soul before you dare to serve at

God's altar!"

The trembling object of this outburst shrank back from before it. The

kneeling candidates bowed lower. I myself stood as one in a fearful

dream, while the horror-stricken people half rose within their pews,

bending forward as they gazed at the sacrilegious scene.

Angus turned and looked unflinchingly into their faces. I feared he was

about to speak again and I raised my hand to signify forbiddal--but he

saw it not, and my inward protest yielded to his fiery purpose.

"Aye, you may well look," he cried to the awestruck worshippers. "God

knows I had not meant to do this thing or to speak these words. I came

here with the honest purpose to assume the vows that should forever bind

me to His service. My heart was honest before God; but when I felt the

approach of those guilty hands it was beyond my power to endure their

touch. Nor should I feel shame for what I have done. You remember the

scourge of knotted cords and the holy temple. Is it wrong that I too

should now seek to drive forth this unworthy man? He stands unmasked

before you. You know not who he is! He is my father and we share our

shame together! Another shares it with her God where the Ettrick water

hears her prayer. And this is the man whose hands would convey the grace

of God!"

He stopped; and the blanched faces before him gave back a voice, half

cry, half sob, anguish rending every heart. They were a proud folk in

St. Cuthbert's; besides no man of all the elders was so dear to them as

Mr. Blake, his piety and philanthropy so long tried and proved. Although

we know it not, there is no asset held more dear than the solvency of a

man in whom we vest the precious savings of our confidence.

Every eye and heart seemed turned towards the man so fiercely accused,

silently entreating him to relieve the cruel tension.

None doubted that his swift denial would confirm the confidence of our

loyal hearts. But the silence drew itself out, moment after moment, each

bequeathing its legacy of pain to its successor. Mr. Blake's eyes were

raptly fixed on his accuser--his traducer, as we secretly defined him.

Their light was not the glow of wrath, nor of resentment, but of a

strange wistful curiosity, mixed with eager yearning. Fear and love

seemed to look out together.

In the pause that followed, Angus swiftly handed to me a small picture,

encased after an ancient fashion.

"Look at that, sir," he said, "that will tell its tale--that is my

father's face."

I looked with eager intentness, and it required but a glance to show

that the pictured face before me, and the pallid face beside me, were

the same. The picture was evidently taken long years before, and the

stamp of youth and hope and ardent faith was upon the face. Locks raven

black, and an unwrinkled brow, had been exchanged for those that bore

the scar of time and care; but no careful eye could fail to see that the

youthful face of the picture and the ashen face of the elder were one

and the same.

But,--more striking and fatal far--the photograph's evidence was not

required. No man who saw, as I saw, the faces of Michael Blake and Angus

Strachan side by side need wait for other evidence. Often had I seen

them thus before--but never in the nakedness of passion.

Passion has the artist's magic hand and her master sketch is ever of her

home. As Titian's immortal hills were but the reproduction of his

far-off dwelling-place, genius plighting its troth to childhood, so doth

passion illumine first the environs of her long time home, how humble so

ever it may be. Passion paints the eternal childlike that is in us all.

The face is the window through which the vista of a soul's inner life

is flashed by her mystic hand, and in that moment the window glows with

the unfeigned light of childhood, its simple radiance still unquenched,

though long draped by artificial years.

Thus transfigured were the faces of Angus Strachan and Michael

Blake--the one with mingled love and fear, the other with unmingled

scorn. With that swift intensity of passion came the reversal to their

common type, and the great betrayal was complete. The blood they shared

together, speaking a kindred language, had turned King's evidence at

last, and its unanswerable testimony leaped from face and eye.

For God hath His silent witnesses, like John the Baptist, by us shut up

in prison and by us beheaded--but He calleth them to the witness-stand

as pleaseth Him; and they live forever in dreadful gospels of love and

doom, the latter sharing the power of the former's endless life. Their

voice is heard above Herodias' strains of revelry and even sceptred

Sadducees tremble at the sound.

Vast is life's mighty forest, but the wronger and the wronged meet

somewhere amid its shadowy glades. Surely life's wooded maze might

afford a hiding place to those who fly from armed memories--but God's

rangers tread its every glen with stealthy step and the foliage of every

thicket gleams with the armour of His detective host. A chance meeting,

a foundling acquaintance, a stray newspaper, an undestroyed letter, a

resurgent memory, a neglected photograph, or, as here, a tell-tale tide

of blood--all these have accepted God's retainer and bear the invisible

badge that denotes His world-spread Force. All life's apparent discord

is harmony itself when He determines the departments and allots to every

thing, and to every man, his work!

"You speak of Ettrick! What know you of Ettrick? What is her name that

lives there?" I heard Mr. Blake ask in a faltering whisper, unheard by

the rigid worshippers.

"She bears no name save that which you defiled--it shall not be spoken

here, though I honour it with my deepest heart--but look on this," and

Angus held out before him what he had drawn from his bosom as he spoke.

Michael Blake's gaze was fixed upon it, no word or sound coming from his

lips. His eyes clung to it with tranquil eagerness, unconscious of all

about, still clinging when Angus withdrew it, wrapped it in the paper

which had enclosed it, and restored it to its hiding-place.