_A MAIDEN PRIESTESS_
Perhaps her mother's woman-heart realized in that moment that the one
path irresistible to a woman's love is the path of sacrifice. In any
case she ceased from her protest and the gentle form arose; moving out
to where he stood, she slipped her dear hand into Angus's, and together
they walked slowly down the aisle of the crowded church. No sideward
glance they cast nor backward did Margaret ever look. Sweet courage was
shining from her face, even joy, as they passed out together--the long
stride of the stalwart man and the gentle step of the dainty maiden, but
ever hand in hand, hidden from the strife of tongues, in love's pavilion
hidden.
They had wandered, knowing not where or whither, some distance from the
church, when Angus stopped, and fixing his reverent look on Margaret's
strangely happy face, he said:
"You don't know what you have done; you have tarnished your name--oh,
Margaret, why did you do it? From henceforth you will share the shame
that belongs to me."
Margaret's face was upturned to his own.
"Is not the sunshine sweet, Angus? And so pure! Surely God loves us
well!"
"It shines upon no man so sad as I," he replied bitterly.
"Angus! After what I did--and the church so full!"
"Nor so happy--and so proud!" concluded Angus. "Where shall we go?"
"Anywhere," answered Margaret; "we shall walk the long walk together."
"No, dear one, not together, that cannot be--but not apart," said Angus,
his voice trembling.
"Do you know, Angus," said Margaret after a pause, "I had often read
about how engagements should be announced. And no one, almost no one
knew that you loved me. And after that first time when you told me you
loved me--and before you told me that other--I so often used to lie
awake and think about how ours should be announced. For I think that is
the sweetest thing in a girl's life, the announcement I mean--no I don't
mean that--the sweetest thing is what has to be told. And now it is all
told--and just to think it was done in a church and before all those
people. And now they all know--and I am so glad! No girl ever had it
done like this before."
"Glad?" said Angus.
"Yes, glad--and proud--aren't you?"
But there was no response, save the old, old silent eloquence of love,
when lip speaks to lip its tender tale, scorning the aid of words.
"Let us go this way," said Margaret at length.
"Where does it lead to?"
"You shall see," she answered; "come away"--and together, still hand in
hand, they walked on.
"Let us rest here, Angus." He threw himself on the grass at her feet.
"Do you not know the place?" she said.
"No," said Angus, "were we ever here before?"
"Oh, Angus, how could you forget? Look again."
He looked again and sacred twilight memories began to pour back upon
him.
"That was in the gloaming, Angus, you remember. And the darkness has
often brooded over it since then--but it is all past now and it never
was so bright before."
"The darkness will come again," said Angus.
"But it will never be able to forget the light--and it will wait----
There is never any real brightness till the waiting's past."
The Sabbath stillness was about them and its peace was in their hearts.
They scarce knew why, and the world would have said that Shadow was
their portion; but, then and ever, true peace passeth all
understanding.
"Kneel down, Angus, kneel here beside me," she suddenly exclaimed.
"Kneel, Margaret! Why shall I kneel?"
"Never mind why--you shall see. Kneel down, Angus."
He knelt, wondering still; she removed his hat with her now ungloved
hands and threw it on the grass.
"Darling, I love you," she said, "and I know you are good and true. And
I was so proud this morning when you were to be ordained to God's holy
service--and it must not be broken off like this. Oh, Angus, when I saw
your face this morning, I feared so that your whole soul would turn to
bitterness and give itself up to hatred of that man. But it must not
be."
"Margaret, stop! Surely you must know----"
"Be still, Angus--it must not be. All this anguish must break in
blessing. Sorrow such as yours will be either a curse or a blessing--and
it must not be a curse. God's love can turn it into blessing--and so can
mine. We shall take up our cross together and shall see it blossom yet.
Oh, Angus, if I can forgive him, you can, for you are dearer to me than
to anybody else." Her hands were now upon his head:--"Angus Strachan, I
ordain you to suffer and to wait. I ordain you to God's service in the
name of love and sorrow and God--and they're all the same name--and I
love you so--and you are an elder now. Oh, dear Lord, take care of our
love and make us true--and patient. And bless our sorrow and make it
sweet and keep us near the Man of Sorrows. Amen."
The white dimpled hands rested long upon the auburn locks of the still
bended head, and her compassion flowed through them to the more than
orphaned heart. It was the same head, she thought, and the same heart,
as had once been blessed by a mother's anguished hand, doomed, as that
mother knew, to the world's unreasoning scorn.
Her own peace seemed to pass into his troubled soul; the anointed head
bowed lower and the yoke was laid upon him, never to be withdrawn. But
its bitterness was gone, purged from it by those white dimpled hands,
and the fragrance of a soul's sweeter life was there instead. For there
had come to him that great moment when secret rebellion turns to secret
prayer, craving blessing from the very hand that had smitten him with
lameness; and Angus was making his ordination vows to God.
Upon that grassy knoll, under heaven's tender sky, with unmoving lips
and broken heart he made the great surrender. Patience he promised God;
and in return he begged the forgiving heart, the strength to bear his
lifelong load, and the aid which might enable him to attain that miracle
of grace when he yet should pray for the man whose sin had foreclothed
his life in shame.
"Let us go back," said Margaret, at length, for the sun was westering.
"Yes, we will go back," said he, for in the gentle words he heard the
bugle call; "we will go back." But first he kissed the ordaining hands,
anointed as they had been to cast out evil from the heart and to bind up
its brokenness.
Homeward they turned their steps, and the noises of the uncaring world
soon fell upon their ears, but their hearts were holden of another song,
and they heard them not.
Backward they bent their way to the world and its cruel pity--but ever
hand in hand.
* * * * *
As the reader already knows, Margaret and Angus went forth from St.
Cuthbert's Church just as Michael Blake was invited to speak in his own
defense and to answer, if he might, the dread charge of his accuser.
"Have you anything to say, Mr. Blake?" were the words I had just uttered
when Margaret and her lover left the church, with all the sequel which
hath been just recorded.
In answer, he watched the retreating forms till they had departed, then
buried his face in his hands. He sat thus so long that I concluded he
had no heart to speak, and again arose, my hand outstretched to give the
blessing, if blessing there might be in such an hour. The congregation
arose to receive the proffered benediction, but before my lips had
opened, a faint hand plucked my gown.
"I will speak, sir," and pale and trembling the unhappy man rose and
stood beside me. I resumed my seat and the people dumbly did the same,
gazing towards their elder with eyes that pleaded for the assurance of
his innocence. Twice or thrice he strove for utterance before the words
would come. At length he spoke.
"Moderator and brethren," he began, "if such as I may call you brethren.
I am a sinful man. My hour has come. God's clock has struck, and it is
the stroke of doom for my unworthy soul. Not that I despair of final
mercy, for mine is a scarlet sin, and for such there is a special
promise. But God's rod hath fallen upon me. The Almighty hath scourged
me through my own son; for he who has just gone forth is none other than
mine own child. My heart went out to him since first I saw his face,
though I knew not till to-day that he is my flesh and blood. The
picture you saw him hold out before me is none other than the picture of
his mother's face.
"I speak it not for my defense--but I thought his mother was dead. I was
told from the old country that she was gone, and more than one letter
was returned to me with the statement that she could not be found. It
was my heart's purpose to make a worthy home for her here in Canada, and
to bring her out to it and to atone if I might for the cruel wrong. The
first is long since done, but the second was beyond my power--at least
so I was led to think.
"And now, Moderator, I place in your hands the resignation of the office
on which I have brought such deep disgrace. It was my pride to be an
elder in St. Cuthbert's, for it was here I first tasted of the Saviour's
forgiving grace; it was here I first learned the luxury of penitence,
and here was born my heart's deep purpose to retrieve the past--it was
my pride, I say to be an elder here, but it is now my shame."
He was about to stop when Saunders McTavish interrupted:
"Moderator, there'll be no need to proceed by libel, for the accused
party has confessed his guilt. But he hasna said anything to the Court
about his soul, about his soul and his sin, and his relation to his God.
At least, not all he might like to say and we might like to hear. Mebbe
he'll have had repentance unto life?"