had reached other ears than those of the sane and liberal-minded
professor, those, namely, of that stern and rigid churchman, the Rev.
Alexander Naismith, some time minister of St. Columba's. Not through
Finlayson, however, be it understood, did this report reach him. That
staunch defender of orthodoxy might, under stress of conscience, find it
his duty to inform the proper authority of the matter, but sooner than
retail gossip to the hurt of his fellow-student he would have cut off
his big, bony right hand.
The Rev. Alexander Naismith was a little man with a shrill voice, which
gained for him the cognomen of “Squeaky Sandy,” and a most irritatingly
persistent temper. Into his hands, while candidates and examiners were
disporting themselves in the calm waters of Systematic Theology,
fell poor Dick, to his confusion and the temporary withholding of his
license. It was impossible but that in the college itself, and in the
college circles of society, this event should become a subject of much
heated discussion.
Professor Macdougall's student parties were not as other student
parties. They were never attended from a sense of duty. This was
undoubtedly due, not so much to the popularity of the professor with his
students, as to the shrewd wisdom and profound knowledge of human nature
generally and of student nature particularly, on the part of that gentle
lady, the professor's wife. Mrs. Macdougall was of the old school, with
very beautiful if very old-fashioned notions of propriety. Her whole
life was one poetic setting forth of the manners and deportment proper
to ladies, both young and old. But none the less her shrewd mother wit
and kindly heart instructed her in things not taught in the schools. The
consequence was that, while she herself sat erect in fine scorn of the
backs of her straight-backed Sheratons, her drawing-room was furnished
with an abundance of easy chairs and lounges, and arranged with cosey
nooks and corners calculated to gratify the luxurious tastes and lazy
manners of a decadent generation. Her shrewd wit was further discovered
in the care she took to assemble to her evening parties the prettiest,
brightest, wickedest of the young girls in the wide circle of her
friends. As young Robert Kidd put it with more vigour than grace, “There
were no last roses in her bunch.” Moreover, the wise little lady took
pains to instruct her young ladies as to their duties toward the young
men of the college.
“You must exert yourselves, my dears,” she would explain, “to make
the evening pleasant for the young men. And they require something to
distract their attention from the too earnest pursuit of their studies.”
And it is a tradition that so heartily did the young ladies throw
themselves into this particular duty that there were, even of the
saintliest of the saints, who found it necessary to take their lectures
in absentia for at least two days in order that they might recover from
the all too successful distractions of the Macdougall party.
Among the guests invited was Margaret, beloved for her own sake, but
even more for the sake of her mother, who had been Mrs. Macdougall's
college companion and lifelong cherished friend. The absorbing theme
of conversation, carried on in a strictly confidential manner, was the
sensational feature of the Presbytery examination. The professor himself
was deeply grieved, and no less so his stately little lady, for to
both of them Dick was as a son. But from neither of them could Margaret
extract anything but the most meagre outline of what had happened. For
full details of the whole dramatic scene she was indebted to Robert
Kidd, second year theologue, whose brown curly locks and cherubic face
and fresh innocence of manner won for him the sobriquet of “Baby Kidd,”
or more shortly, “Kiddie.”
“Tell us just what happened,” entreated Miss Belle Macdougall, with
a glance of such heart-penetrating quality that Kiddie promptly
acquiesced.
“Well, I'll tell you,” he said, adopting a low confidential tone. “I
could see from the very start that old Squeaky Sandy was out after
Dick. He couldn't get him on his Hebrew, so the old chap lay low till
everything was lovely and they were falling on each others' necks over
the Shorter Catechism, and things every fellow is supposed to be quite
safe on. All at once Sandy squeaked in, 'Mr. Boyle, will you kindly
state what you consider the correct theory of the Atonement?' 'I don't
know,' said Boyle; 'I haven't got any.' By Jove! everyone sat up. 'You
believe in the doctrine, I suppose?' Boyle waited a while and my heart
stopped till he went on again. 'Yes, sir, I believe in it.' 'How is
that, sir? If you believe in it you must have a theory. What do you
believe about it?' 'I believe in the fact. I don't understand it, and I
have no theory of it as yet.' And Boyle was as gentle as a sucking dove.
Then the Moderator, decent old chap, chipped it.”
“Who was it?” inquired Miss Belle.
“Dr. Mitchell. Fine old boy. None too sound himself, I guess. Pre-mill,
too, you know. Well, he chipped in and got him past that snag. But old
Sandy was not done yet by a long shot. He went after Boyle on every
doctrine in the catalogue where it was possible for a man to get off
the track, Inspiration, Inerrancy, the Mosaic Authorship, and the
whole Robertson Smith business. You know that last big heresy hunt in
Scotland.”
“No,” said Miss Belle, “I don't know. And you don't, either, so you
needn't stop and try to tell us.”
“I don't, eh?” said Bob, who was finding it difficult to keep himself in
a perfectly sane condition under the bewildering glances of Miss Belle's
black eyes. “Well, perhaps I don't. At any rate, I couldn't make you
understand.”
“Hear him!” said Miss Belle, with supreme scorn. “Go on. We are
interested in Boyle, aren't we, Margaret?”
“Well, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, sir, in about five minutes it seemed
to me that Boyle's theology was a tattered remnant. Some of the brethren
interfered, explaining and apologizing for the young man after their
kindly custom, but Squeaky wouldn't have it. 'This is most serious, Mr.
Moderator!' he sung out. 'This demands the most searching investigation!
We all know what is going on in the Old Land, how the great doctrines
of our faith are being undermined by so-called scholarship, which is
nothing less than blasphemy and impudent scepticism.' And so he went on
shrieking more and more wildly a lot of tommy-rot. But the worst was yet
to come. All at once Sandy changed his line of attack and proceeded to
take Boyle on the flank. 'Mr. Boyle, are you a smoker?' he asked. 'Yes,'
stammered poor Boyle, getting red in the face, 'I smoke some.' 'Are you
a total abstainer?' And then Boyle got on to him, and I saw his head
go back for the first time. Before this he had been sitting like a
convicted criminal. 'No, sir,' he answered, turning square around
and facing old Squeaky, 'I am not pledged to total abstinence.' Don't
suppose he ever took a drink in his life. 'Did you ever attend the
theatre?' This was the limit. It seemed to strike the brethren all at
once what the old inquisitor was driving at. The words were hardly out
of his mouth when there was a weird sound, a cross between a howl and a
roar, and Grant was at the Moderator's desk. It will always be a mystery
to me how he got there. There were three pews between him and the
desk, and I swear he never came out into the aisle. 'Mr. Moderator,
I protest', he shouted. And then the dust began to fly. Say! it was a
regular sand storm! About the only thing visible was the lightning from
Grant's eyes. By Jingo! 'Mr. Moderator, I protest,' he cried, when he
could get a hearing, 'against these insinuations. We all know what
Mr. Naismith means by this method of inquisition. But let me tell Mr.
Naismith--' Don't know what in thunder he was going to tell him, for
the next few moments they mixed it up good and hot. Say! it was a circus
with all the monkeys loose and the band playing seventeen tunes all
at once! But finally Grant had his say and treated the Presbytery to a
pretty full disquisition of his own theology, and when he was done my
pity was transferred from Boyle to him, for it seemed that on every
doctrine where Boyle was a heretic Grant had gone him one better. And
I believe the whole Presbytery were vastly relieved to discover how
slight, by contrast, were the errors to which Boyle had fallen. Then
Henderson, good old soul, took his innings and poured on oil, with the
result that Boyle was turned over to a committee--and that's where he is
now. But he'll never appear. He's going in for journalism. The Telegraph
wants him.”
“Journalism?” cried Margaret faintly. She was thinking of the dark-faced
old lady up in the country who was counting the days till her son should
be sent forth a minister of the Gospel.
“Yes,” said Kiddie. “And there's where he'll shine. See what he's done
with the Monthly. He's got great style. But wasn't there a row at the
college!” continued Kiddie. “Old Father Finlayson there,” nodding across
the room at the Highlander, who was engaged in what appeared to be
an extremely interesting conversation with his hostess, “orthodox old
beggar as he is, was ready to lead a raid on Squeaky Sandy's house. You
know he has been at war with Boyle all winter on every and all possible
themes. But he fights fair, and this hitting below the belt was too much
for him. He was raging up and down the hall like a wild man when Boyle
came in. 'Mr. Boyle,' he roared, rushing up to him and seizing him by
the hand and working it like a pump-handle in a fire, 'it was a most
iniquitous proceeding! I wish to assure you I have no sympathy whatever
with that sort of thing!' And so he went on till he had Boyle almost in
tears. By Jove! he's a rum old party! Look at his socks, will you!”
The young ladies glanced across and beheld in amused but amazed horror
the Highlander's great feet encased in a new pair of carpet slippers
adorned with pink roses and green ground, which made a startling
contrast with his three-ply worsted stockings, magenta in colour, which
his fond aunt had knit as part of his outfit for the Arctic regions of
Canada.
“You may laugh,” continued Bob. “So would I yesterday. But, by Jingo! he
can wear magenta socks on his head if he likes for me! He's all white,
and he has the heart of a gentleman!” Little Kidd's voice went shaky and
his eyes had the curious shine that appeared in them only in moments of
deepest excitement, but if he had only known it, he had never been so
near storming the gate of Miss Belle's heart as at that moment. She
showed her sympathy with Kiddie's attitude by giving Mr. Finlayson “the
time of his life,” as Kiddie himself remarked. So assiduously, indeed,
did she devote herself to the promotion of Mr. Finlayson's comfort and
good cheer that that gentleman's fine sense of honour prompted him to
inform her incidentally of the existence of Miss Jennie McLean, who was
to “come out to him as soon as he was placed.” He was surprised,
but entirely delighted, to discover that this announcement made no
difference whatever in Miss Belle's attentions. At the supper hour,
however, Miss Belle, moved by Kiddie's lugubrious countenance, yielded
her place to Margaret, who continued the operation of giving Mr.
Finlayson “the time of his life.” But not a word could she extract from
him regarding the heresy case, for, with a skill that might have made a
Queen's Counsel green with envy, he baffled her leading questions with a
density of ignorance unparalleled in her experience, until she let it
be known that Dick was an old schoolmate and dear friend. Then Mr.
Finlayson poured forth the grief and rage swelling in his big heart at
the treatment his enemy had received and his anxious concern for his
future both here and hereafter. In a portion of this concern, at least,
Margaret shared. And as Mr. Finlayson continued to unburden himself,
during the walk home, regarding the heresies in Edinburgh from which he
had fled and the heresies that had apparently taken possession of Dick's
mind, her heart continued to sink within her, for it seemed that the
opinions attributed to Dick were subversive of all she had held true
from her childhood. With such intelligence and sympathy, however, did
she listen to Mr. Finlayson discoursing, that that gentleman carried
back with him to college a heart somewhat lightened of its burden, but
withal seriously impressed with the charm and the mental grasp of the
young ladies of Canada. And so enthusiastically did he dwell upon this
theme in his next letter, that Miss Jessie McLean set herself devoutly
to pray, either that Finlayson might soon be placed, or that the
professors might cease giving parties.
The brand of heresy almost invariably works ill to him who bears it. For
if he be young and shallow enough to enjoy the distinction, it will only
increase his vanity and render his return to sure and safe paths
more difficult. But if his doubts are to him a grief and a horror of
darkness, the brand will burn in and drive him far from his fellows,
and change the kindly spirit in him to bitterness unless, perchance, he
light upon a friend who gives him love and trust unstinted and links him
to wholesome living. After all, in matters of faith every man must blaze
his own path through the woods and make his own clearing in which to
dwell. And he may well thank God if his path lead him some whither where
there is space enough to work his day's work and light enough to live
by.
With Dick it was mostly dark, for it was not given him to have a friend
who could understand. But he was not allowed to feel himself to be
quite abandoned, for in the darkest of his hours there stood at his side
Margaret Robertson, whose strong, cheery good sense and whose loyalty to
right-doing helped him and strengthened him and so made it possible to
wait till the better day dawned.
XIV
WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN
The Journalistic World has its own diversity of mountain and plain, and
its own variety of inhabitants. There are its mountain ranges and
upland regions of clear skies and pure airs, where are wide outlooks
and horizons whose dim lines fade beyond the reach of clear vision.
Amid these mountain ranges and upon these uplands dwell men among the
immortals to whom has come the “vision splendid” and whose are the
voices that in the crisis of a man or of a nation give forth the call
that turns the face upward to life eternal and divine. To these men such
words as Duty, Honour, Patriotism, Purity, stand for things of intrinsic
value worth a man's while to seek and, having found, to die for.
Level plains there are, too, where harvests are sown and reaped. But
there these same words often become mere implements of cultivation,
tools for mechanical industries or currency for the conduct of
business. Here dwell the practical men of affairs, as they love to call
themselves, for whom has faded the vision in the glare of opportunism.
And far down by the water-fronts are the slum wastes where the sewers of
politics and business and social life pour forth their fetid filth. Here
the journals of yellow shade grub and fatten. In this ooze and slime
puddle the hordes of sewer rats, scavengers of the world's garbage,
from whose collected stores the editor selects his daily mess for the
delectation of the great unwashed, whether of the classes or of the
masses, and from which he grabs in large handfuls that viscous mud that
sticks and stings where it sticks.
The Daily Telegraph was born yellow, a frank yellow of the barbaric type
that despises neutral tints. By the Daily Telegraph things were called
by their uneuphemistic names. A spade was a spade, and mud was mud, and
nothing was sacred from its sewer rats. The highest paid official on its
staff was a criminal lawyer celebrated in the libel courts. Everybody
cursed it and everybody read it. After a season, having thus firmly
established itself in the enmities of the community, and having become,
in consequence, financially secure, it began to aspire toward the
uplands, where the harvests were as rich and at the same time less
perilous as well as less offensive in the reaping. It began to study
euphemism. A spade became an agricultural implement and mud alluvial
deposit. Having become by long experience a specialist in the business
of moral scavenging, it proceeded to devote itself with most vehement
energy to the business of moral reform. All indecencies that could not
successfully cover themselves with such gilding as good hard gold can
give were ruthlessly held up to public contempt. It continued to be
cursed, but gradually came to be respected and feared.
It was to aid in this upward climb that the editor of the Daily
Telegraph seized upon Dick. That young man was peculiarly fitted for the
part which was to be assigned to him. He was a theological student and,
therefore, his ethical standards were unimpeachable. His university
training guaranteed his literary sense, and his connection with the
University and College papers had revealed him a master of terse
English. He was the very man, indeed, but he must serve his
apprenticeship with the sewer rats. For months he toiled amid much slime
and filth, breathing in its stinking odours, gaining knowledge, it
is true, but paying dear for it in the golden coin of that finer
sensibility and that vigorous moral health which had formerly made his
life, to himself and to others, a joy and beauty. For the slime would
stick, do what he could, and with the smells he must become so familiar
that they no longer offended. That delicate discrimination that
immediately detects the presence of decay departed from him, and in its
place there developed a coarser sense whose characteristic was its power
to distinguish between sewage and sewage. Hence, morality, with him,
came to consist in the choosing of sewage of the less offensive forms.
On the other hand, consciousness of the brand of heresy drove him from
those scenes where the air is pure and from association with those high
souls who by mere living exhale spiritual health and fragrance.
“We do not see much of Mr. Boyle these days, Margaret,” Mrs. Macdougall
would say to her friend, carefully modulating her tone lest she should
betray the anxiety of her gentle, loyal heart. “But I doubt not he is
very busy with his new duties.”
“Yes, he is very busy,” Margaret would reply, striving to guard her
voice with equal care, but with less success. For Margaret was cursed,
nay blessed, with that heart of infinite motherhood that yearns over the
broken or the weak or the straying of humankind, and makes their pain
its own.
“Bring him with you to tea next Sabbath evening, my dear,” the little
lady would say, with never a quiver or inflection of voice betraying
that she had detected the girl's anxiety for her friend.
But more infrequently, as the days went on, could she secure Dick for
an hour on Sabbath evening in the quiet, sweet little nook of the
professor's dining-room. He was so often held by his work, but more
often by his attendance upon Iola, for between Iola and him there had
grown up and ripened rapidly an intimacy that Margaret regarded with
distrust and fear. How she hated herself for her suspicions! How she
fought to forbid them harbour in her heart! But how persistently they
made entrance and to abide.
The World of Fashion is, for the most part, a desert island of gleaming
sands, at times fanned by perfume-laden zephyrs and lapped by shining
waters. Then those who dwell there disport themselves, careless of all
save the lapping, shining waters and the gleaming sands out of which
they build their sand castles with such concentrated eagerness and such
painful industry. At other times there come tempests, sudden and out
of clear skies, which sweep, with ruthless besom, castles and
castle-builders alike, and leave desolation and empty spaces for a time.
A silly world it is, and hard of heart, and like to die of ennui at
times. And hence it welcomes with pathetic joy all who can bring some
new fancy or trick to their castle-building, rejecting all other without
remorse. To this World of Fashion Iola had offered herself, giving
freely her great voice and her superb body, now developed into the full
splendour of its rich and sensuous beauty. And how they gathered about
her and gave her unstinted their flatteries and homage, taking toll the
while of the very soul-stuff in her. Devoutly they worshipped at the
shrine of that heavenlike and heaven-given instrument wherewith she
could tickle their senses, rejoicing, during the pauses of their envies
and hatreds, such among them as were female, and of their lusts and
despairs such as were male, in her warm flesh tints and full flesh
curves and the draperies withal wherewith, with consummate art, she
revealed or enhanced the same. For Iola was possessed of a fatal,
maddening beauty, and an alluring fascination of manner that wrought
destruction among men and fury among women.
To Dick, who, with his brilliant talents, shed lustre upon her courts,
Iola gave chief place in her train, yet in such manner as that her
preference for him neither lessened the number nor checked the ardour of
her devotees. He was her friend of childhood days, her good friend,
but nothing more. Upon this basis of a boy and girl friendship was
established an intimacy which seemed to render unnecessary those
conventions, unreal and vexing in appearance, but which, as the wise
old world has proved, man and woman with the dread potencies of passion
slumbering within them cannot afford to despise. By their mutual tastes,
as by their habits of life, Iola and Dick were brought into daily
association. Under Dick's guidance she read and studied the masters of
the English drama. For she had her eye now upon the operatic stage and
was at present devoting herself to the great musical dramas of Wagner.
Together they took full advantage of the theatre privileges which Dick's
connection with the press gave him. And at those festive routs by which
society amuses and vexes itself they were constantly thrown together.
Dick was acutely and growingly sensitive to the influence Iola had upon
him. Her beauty disturbed him. The subtle potency that exhaled from
her physical charms affected him like draughts of wine. Away from her
presence he marvelled at himself and scorned his weakness; but
once within sound of her voice, within touch of her hand, her power
reasserted itself. The mystery of the body, its subtle appeal, its
terrible potency, allured and enslaved him. Against this infatuation of
Dick's, Margaret felt herself helpless. She well knew that Dick's
love for her had not changed, except to grow into a bitter, despairing
intensity that made his presence painful to her at times. This very love
of his closed her lips. She could only wait her time, meanwhile
keeping such touch with him as she could, bringing to him the wholesome
fragrance of a pure heart and the strength and serenity of a life
devoted to well doing.
Something would occur to recall him to his better self. And something
did occur. Almost a year had elapsed since Barney had gone out of Iola's
life in so tragic a way. Through all the months of the year he had
waited, longing and hoping for the word that might recall him to her,
until suspense became unbearable even for his strong soul. Hence it
was that Iola received from him a letter breathing of love so deep,
so tender, and withal so humble, that even across the space that these
months had put between Barney and herself, Iola was profoundly stirred
and sorely put to it to decide upon her answer. She took the letter to
Margaret and read her such parts as she thought necessary. “A year has
gone. It seems like ten. I have waited for your word, but none has come.
Looking back upon that dreadful night I sometimes think I may have been
severe. If so, my punishment has been heavy enough to atone. Tell me,
shall I come to you? I can offer you a home even better than I had hoped
a year ago. I am offered a lectureship here with an ample salary, or an
assistantship on equal terms, by Trent. I have discovered that I am in
the grip of a love beyond my power to control. In spite of all that my
work is to me, I find myself looking, not into the book before me, but
into your eyes--I may be able to live without you, but I cannot live my
best. I don't see how I can live at all. It seems as if I could not wait
even a few days for your word to come. Darling, my heart's love, tell me
to come.”
“How can I answer a letter like that?” said Iola to Margaret.