THE WISDOM OF THE WISE.
BUT Mr. Chetwynd sat long in his study, gazing into the fire, and
playing with a glass letter-weight upon the table. Somehow he could
not easily shake off the impression of the double warning which he
had so singularly received. It was evidently a mere coincidence, and
quite undesigned, though very probably the result on both sides of some
conversation upon the subject that afternoon.
And the two coming thus closely together—the warning of Madge
Hardwicke, the simple-minded strong-hearted cottager; and the warning
of Mona, his gentle niece—had left an impression behind. It was a
confused impression at first. A good deal of annoyance, and a good
deal of hurt feeling, were mingled with some genuine reproaches of
conscience. The words of Madge alone, or of Mona alone, might scarcely
have sufficed to do so much, but coming together, they had shaken
him out of his usual self-satisfied composure. He found there would
be small likelihood of sleep, till he had come to some sort of an
understanding with himself. So he sat still, and thought the matter out.
Mona had said some hard things to him—that slight young creature, whom
he had regarded as scarcely more than a child. If he had ever soberly
considered the matter, he would have supposed her to be quite incapable
of entering into the real meaning of such remarks, as those in which
he had often indulged himself before her. He little knew the dormant
capacities for speculation in the mind of many such a girl as Mona.
And "he" had led her to the precipice-edge! And "his" words had done
the mischief! And "he" had been the source of pain and misery to the
child of his lost and only sister. Why, he would have given his very
life to save hers any day. And yet—
Amos Ackman had narrowly escaped becoming the murderer of his child.
But he had had no power, in all his sullen anger, to touch the life
enshrined within that little frail body. Mr. Chetwynd, it might be, had
narrowly escaped guilt of a still more awful dye—even the death of the
soul of one who was to him as a child of his own!
He did not know of the crimson stain, which the old man on the hill
had so nearly gained. But Mona's words had brought dimly before him
something of what he himself had well-nigh done.
"It was the work of Satan that he had taken up,—Satan, a hard and
bitter taskmaster,—letting alone the judgments of the Lord Himself
on those who should meddle in His work!" What! He—the scientific
intellectual trusted physician, the clever well-informed leading man in
Alyn—he a servant of Satan! The words stared him boldly in the face. He
would not meet them, and turned away—only to find others starting up in
their place.
"It was you who led me there! Thank God, He did not let you send me
over! And if you should do the same to others,—" Why, he had done the
same to others, scores of times. A day never passed that he did not
indulge himself in some light sneer or cutting sarcasm upon religious
questions. Was every word thus uttered indeed a drop of poison allowed
to fall, for which future account must be rendered at the bar of the
eternal God? Would lost souls be verily laid to his charge—souls which
but for him might have attained to the joys of heaven?
"Stuff. Nonsense!" he said petulantly. "One would think I had caught a
reflection of Madge's notions to-night!"
But what if these things were not nonsense? What if he himself stood
in the black darkness, of which Mona had spoken in such low-voiced
horror,—if he had stood there so long that he knew not what it was even
to wish for light?
One after another these questions came to him, in much the same
speculative fashion in which questions did come to him, by mere force
of habit and bias of mind, at all times. But he could not now, as on
other days, shake them lightly aside.
What if he did not believe the Bible to be the Word of God? Could he in
very truth say that he did? Then—"No hope! No pardon! No Saviour! No
heaven!"
So Madge had assured him! But who was Madge to dare to speak such words
to him? What right had she, a poor ignorant cottager, to stamp him as
a man in such awful case? A desolate helpless creature, standing apart
from God for ever! He to be thus!
Apart from God! Why, that there was a God he knew full well. His
doubtings were at least the doubtings of a man of sense as well as
intellect,—not the mad dreamings of a clever fool. He literally had too
much of common every-day manly sense, to give in to shallow theories
of atoms developing themselves into worlds, or of a universe somehow
sprouting up spontaneously out of nothing. He had some sort of vague
belief in the Bible, taken generally—only he had always insisted upon
holding in his own hand the scales of judgment, that he might retain or
reject each separate doctrine, according as it suited or opposed his
private notions of truth.
And here had this woman come in, breaking down his calm security,
dashing aside his proud serenity, and telling him boldly, face to
face—albeit with all meekness—that no such middle course lay open to
him, that he must either believe or not believe, that he must either
accept, with implicit faith, the Word, and the Saviour of whom the
Word testified, or find himself cut off from God and heaven for ever.
"All Scripture is given by inspiration of God." There lay a hard rock
against which to stumble.
"What 'do' you believe in the Bible?" The gentle question came back
and back to him persistently. What did he believe? What did he? Half
unconsciously, he found himself searching for an answer,—seeking into
his own belief as he had never honestly sought before.
How about the power of prayer? No doctrine is more closely interwoven
with the very texture of the Bible, than that of prayer and its
workings. But Mr. Chetwynd had simply disbelieved it altogether.
How about the fallen condition of man, and Christ Jesus as the only
hope of salvation? No doctrines in the Bible stand out with more sharp
and decided outline. But Mr. Chetwynd had rejected all notion of man's
degradation; and while not denying the great fact of the death of
Christ, he had had most hazy ideas respecting the necessity for any
such sacrifice.
How about the hidden spiritual life? No Bible doctrine is more full in
its development than this. Mr. Chetwynd had sneered at its professed
experiences, professed lofty superiority to its weaknesses, despised
its faith, and discredited its very existence.
If these things were true, where was he in his captious standing apart
from God? If not—?
"He that believeth not God hath made Him a liar." These things were
plainly written in the Word of the living God. If he did not believe
them, "then" he believed not God; "then" he made God even as a liar;
"then" there remained to himself—what? Again Madge Hardwicke's words
rang mournfully in his ears: "No hope! No pardon! No Saviour! No
heaven!"
"Anything rather than that!" he murmured. And he rose and took down his
mother's Bible, unused for many years. He had a dim impression of the
last time he had ever stood at her knee, and of her making him spell
aloud to her a few verses in the First Epistle to the Corinthians.
Like a man revisiting a garden, seen long before, and wandering
instinctively to one remembered corner,—for notwithstanding all Mr.
Chetwynd's church-going, family prayers, general knowledge of Biblical
doctrines, and special knowledge of popular cavils, the Bible had been
with him for years a neglected book,—he turned to that same Epistle. He
began glancing through it slowly, as he sat there, with the lamp-light
falling on his bent and troubled brow.
"It is written, I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and will bring
to nothing the understanding of the prudent."
Was that meant for him? Was he one of "the wise?"
"God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise."
He stopped there again, and another verse, learnt in early boyhood,
flashed across his mind:—
"I thank Thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because Thou hast
hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto
babes."
He thought of little Nannie—of Madge Hardwicke—of Mona. How he had
looked down upon them, in his conscious intellectual superiority! Was
it in very truth that God Himself had veiled these matters of mighty
import from him, in his pride of earthly learning, while revealing deep
mysteries of love and grace to the simple-hearted women and children?
Mr. Chetwynd had been wise and prudent in his generation; but these
things had been hidden from him; so that he, hearing of them, yet in
his blindness seeing them not, had deemed their very existence but a
fable.
"Not many wise—not many noble—are called."
"Not many." But, thank God, it does not say, "Not any." He thought of
Mr. Prior. Madge Hardwicke all untaught in worldly lore, and Mr. Prior,
with whose strong intellect Mr. Chetwynd would scarcely have cared to
measure his own, met here upon the same level. With the one, indeed,
was to be found the spirit of deep research, and a full knowledge of
historical and critical evidences; while the other knew and cared
little for evidences beyond her own practical knowledge of the life
and truth and peace which she had found in her Bible. But alike they
entered the Kingdom of Heaven, alike receiving the teaching of the Word
with the simple loving trust of little children.
"Let no man deceive himself. If any man among you seemeth to be wise
in this world, let him become a fool, that he may be wise. For the wisdom
of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written, He taketh the
wise in their own craftiness. And again, The Lord knoweth the thoughts
of the wise, that they are vain."
He read so far, and then he sat and thought—thought, till all in the
house but himself had gone to bed,—thought, till his lamp flickered and
failed for lack of oil, leaving the study in darkness. Mr. Chetwynd did
not even notice the change. He sat with his hand over his eyes, deeply
communing with his own soul.
Had he ever honestly searched into these matters before? Had he
not rather skimmed recklessly over their surface, in a spirit of
semi-sceptical criticism, and measureless self-conceit? There seemed to
open out before him at last some insight into things unseen—some power
to pierce through the veil, which for long years past had shrouded him
in darkness.
"And I have been one of these 'wise,'" he said to himself. "Wise with
the wisdom which is foolishness in the sight of God! Is that the
meaning of the intellect, which men worship in the present day? Plain
words spoken here—uncompromising as steel. Can it be that I have been
one of these self-deceivers—seeming, and only seeming, to be wise? If
so, 'let him become a fool, that he may be wise!' Become one! What if I
have been a fool all along—ay, worse than a fool, daring to set up my
puny notions in the very face of what God has revealed to us!
"As well meet the matter boldly. I am not a coward, at all events. What
if I have been altogether in the wrong? 'The Lord knoweth!' How St.
Paul's words seem to meet one at every point . . . Will Madge think she
has gained a victory? Not to triumph at any rate. Better that, than to
find, too late, my whole life a failure,—I, with all my wisdom, shut
out from heaven,—and very fools pressing in before me!"
He sat upright, felt for a box of matches, took a silver candlestick
from the mantelpiece, and struck a light. The open page of the Bible
lay still beside him.
"If this indeed be the Word of God, through and through, the very truth
of God,—then where am I, and what am I, at this moment?
"Ay,—no doubt what Madge would say. An unsaved sinner,—apart from
God,—worthless and helpless. I know it all by heart,—have heard it
often enough,—have laughed the notion to scorn. What if, after all, it
be very truth—and my wisdom there be very foolishness?
"A helpless sinner,—standing apart from God! So they say,—and so it
may be. How can I prove the contrary? There are things which the
wisest living cannot fathom. Suppose a clue lies here. But never mind
generalities just now. Suppose 'I' am in that condition,—a condemned
man, cut off from my Maker,—needing—needing what?"
Did he pause here, with a feeling like that which constrained Job, in
olden days, to cry aloud for a "Daysman" to stand between him and a
holy God? Something of the kind it must have been. And an answer came
once more breathing softly across his heart, in words learnt long ago
from a mother's lips:—
"There is One Mediator between God and man, the Man Christ Jesus."
For a moment there was stillness,—a hush of body and mind, as he slowly
grasped the wondrous words, and caught a glimpse of their boundless
meaning. And then, he bent his head,—reverently, as for long years past
he had never done,—and uttered half aloud—
"God be merciful to me, a sinner,—for Christ's sake."
The first step was taken. Mr. Chetwynd had a hard lesson to learn, but
he did not quail before it. He was not far from the Kingdom of Heaven
that night. Madge Hardwicke's and Mona's words, which but a few weeks
back might have passed unheeded, save by smile or sneer, had reached
him at the right moment. They had fallen like seed into prepared
ground,—prepared, all unknown to himself, through the Holy Spirit's
guidance, under the influence of Mr. Prior's teaching, and of Mona's
illness following. And the day was not far distant, when the once
careless half-unbelieving caviller thanked Madge from his very heart,
for the kindly boldness of her warning words that evening.
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