shook and he spilled some drops of the wine upon his beard, which all
that day showed like blood on the silvery whiteness. Afterwards he
spake in his turn to the communicants, and distinguished the true
people of God from the multitude--to whom he held out no hope--by so
many and stringent marks that Donald Menzies refused the Sacrament with
a lamentable groan. And when the Sacrament was over, and the time came
for Carmichael to shake hands with the assisting minister in the
vestry, the Rabbi had vanished, and he had no speech with him till they
went through the garden together--very bleak it seemed in the winter
dusk--unto the sermon that closed the services of the day.
[Illustration: WHEN CARMICHAEL GAVE HIM THE CUP IN THE SACRAMENT.]
"God's hand is heavy in anger on us both this day, John," and
Carmichael was arrested by the awe and sorrow in the Rabbi's voice,
"else . . . you had not spoken as you did this forenoon, nor would
necessity be laid on me to speak . . . as I must this night.
"His ways are all goodness and truth, but they are oftentimes
encompassed with darkness, and the burden He has laid on me is . . .
almost more than I can bear; it will be heavy for you also.
"You will drink the wine of astonishment this night, and it will be
strange if you do not . . . turn from the hand that pours it out, but
you will not refuse the truth or . . . hate the preacher"; and at the
vestry door the Rabbi looked wistfully at Carmichael.
During the interval the lad had been ill at ease, suspecting from the
Rabbi's manner at the Table, and the solemnity of his address, that he
disapproved of the action sermon, but he did not for a moment imagine
that the situation was serious. It is one of the disabilities of
good-natured and emotional people, without much deepness of earth, to
belittle the convictions and resolutions of strong natures, and to
suppose that they can be talked away by a few pleasant, coaxing words.
The Rabbi had often yielded to Carmichael and his other boys in the
ordinary affairs of life--in meat and drink and clothing, even unto the
continuance of his snuffing. He had been most manageable and
pliable--as a child in their hands--and so Carmichael was quite
confident that he could make matters right with the old man about a
question of doctrine as easily as about the duty of a midday meal.
Certain bright and superficial people will only learn by some solitary
experience that faith is reserved in friendship, and that the most
heroic souls are those which count all things loss--even the smile of
those they love--for the eternal. For a moment Carmichael was shaken
as if a new Rabbi were before him; then he remembered the study of
Kilbogie, and all things that had happened therein, and his spirits
rose.
"How dare you suggest such wickedness, Rabbi, that any of us should
ever criticise or complain of anything you say? Whatever you give us
will be right, and do us good, and in the evening you will tell me all
I said wrong."
Saunderson looked at Carmichael for ten seconds as one who has not been
understood, and sighed. Then he went down the kirk after the beadle,
and the people marked how he walked like a man who was afraid he might
fall, and, turning a corner, he supported himself on the end of a pew.
As he crept up the pulpit stairs Elspeth gave her husband a look, and,
although well accustomed to the slowness of his understanding, was
amazed that he did not catch the point. Even a man might have seen
that this was not the same minister that came in to the Sacrament with
hope in his very step.
"A'm no here tae say 'that a' kent what wes comin''"--Elspeth, like all
experts, was strictly truthful--"for the like o' that wes never heard
in Drumtochty, and noo that Doctor Saunderson is awa', will never be
heard again in Scotland. A' jaloused that vials wud be opened an' a'
wesna wrang, but ma certes"--and that remarkable woman left you to
understand that no words in human speech could even hint at the
contents of the vials.
When the Rabbi gave out his text, "Vessels of wrath," in a low,
awestruck voice, Carmichael began to be afraid, but after a little he
chid himself for foolishness. During half an hour the Rabbi traced the
doctrine of the Divine Sovereignty through Holy Scripture with a
characteristic wealth of allusion to Fathers ancient and reforming, and
once or twice he paused, as if he would have taken up certain matters
at greater length, but restrained himself, simply asserting the Pauline
character of St. Augustine's thinking, and exposing the looseness of
Clement of Alexandria with a wave of the hand, as one hurrying on to
his destination.
"Dear old Rabbi"--Carmichael congratulated himself in his pew--"what
need he have made so many apologies for his subject? He is going to
enjoy himself, and he is sure to say something beautiful before he is
done." But he was distinctly conscious all the same of a wish that the
Rabbi were done and all . . . well, uncertainty over. For there was a
note of anxiety, almost of horror, in the Rabbi's voice, and he had not
let the Fathers go so lightly unless under severe constraint. What was
it? Surely he would not attack their minister in face of his
people. . . . The Rabbi do that, who was in all his ways a gentleman?
Yet . . . and then the Rabbi abruptly quitted historical exposition and
announced that he would speak on four heads. Carmichael, from his
corner behind the curtains, saw the old man twice open his mouth as if
to speak, and when at last he began he was quivering visibly, and he
had grasped the outer corners of the desk with such intensity that the
tassels which hung therefrom--one of the minor glories of the Free
Kirk--were held in the palm of his hand, the long red tags escaping
from between his white wasted fingers. A pulpit lamp came between
Carmichael and the Rabbi's face, but he could see the straining hand,
which did not relax till it was lifted in the last awful appeal, and
the white and red had a gruesome fascination. It seemed as if one had
clutched a cluster of full, rich, tender grapes and was pressing them
in an agony till their life ran out in streams of blood, and dripped
upon the heads of the choir sitting beneath, in their fresh, hopeful
youth. And it also came to Carmichael with pathetic conviction even
then that every one was about to suffer, but the Rabbi more than them
all together. While the preacher was strengthening his heart for the
work before him, Carmichael's eye was attracted by the landscape that
he could see through the opposite window. The ground sloped upwards
from the kirk to a pine-wood that fringed the great moor, and it was
covered with snow, on which the moon was beginning to shed her faint,
weird light. Within, the light from the upright lamps was falling on
the ruddy, contented faces of men and women and little children, but
without it was one cold, merciless whiteness, like unto the justice of
God, with black shadows of judgment.
"This is the message which I have to deliver unto you in the name of
the Lord, and even as Jonah was sent to Nineveh after a strange
discipline with a word of mercy, so am I constrained against my will to
carry a word of searching and trembling.
"First"--and between the heads the Rabbi paused as one whose breath had
failed him--"every man belongs absolutely to God by his creation.
"Second. The purpose of God about each man precedes his creation.
"Third. Some are destined to Salvation, and some to Damnation.
"Fourth"--here the hard breathing became a sob--"each man's lot is unto
the glory of God."
It was not only skilled theologians like Lachlan Campbell and Burnbrae,
but even mere amateurs who understood that they were that night to be
conducted to the farthest limit of Calvinism, and that, whoever fell
behind through the hardness of the way, their guide would not flinch.
As the Rabbi gave the people a brief space wherein to grasp his heads
in their significance, Carmichael remembered a vivid incident in the
Presbytery of Muirtown, when an English evangelist had addressed that
reverend and austere court with exhilarating confidence--explaining the
extreme simplicity of the Christian faith, and showing how a minister
ought to preach. Various good men were delighted, and asked many
questions of the evangelist--who had kept a baby-linen shop for twenty
years, and was unspoiled by the slightest trace of theology--but the
Rabbi arose and demolished his "teaching," convicting him of heresy at
every turn, till there was not left one stone upon another.
"But surely fear belongs to the Old Testament dispensation and is now
done away with," said the unabashed little man to the Rabbi afterwards.
"'Rejoice,' you know, my friend, 'and again I say, Rejoice'--that is
the New Testament note."
"If it be the will of God that such a man as I should ever stand on the
sea of glass mingled with fire, then this tongue will be lifted with
the best, but so long as my feet are still in the fearful pit it
becometh me to bow my head."
"Then you don't believe in assurance?" But already the evangelist was
quailing before the Rabbi.
"Verily there is no man that hath not heard of that precious gift, and
none who does not covet it greatly, but there be two degrees of
assurance"--here the Rabbi looked sternly at the happy, rotund little
figure--"and it is with the first you must begin, and what you need to
get is assurance of your damnation."
One of the boys read an account of this incident--thinly veiled--in a
reported address of the evangelist, in which the Rabbi--being, as it
was inferred, beaten in Scriptural argument--was very penitent and
begged his teacher's pardon with streaming tears. What really happened
was different, and so absolutely conclusive that Doctor Dowbiggin gave
it as his opinion "that a valuable lesson had been read to unauthorized
teachers of religion."
Carmichael recognised the same note in the sermon and saw another man
than he knew, as the Rabbi, in a low voice, without heat or
declamation, with frequent pauses and laboured breathing, as of one
toiling up a hill, argued the absolute supremacy of God and the utter
helplessness of man. One hand ever pressed the grapes, but with the
other the old man wiped the perspiration that rolled in beads down his
face. A painful stillness fell on the people as they felt themselves
caught in the meshes of this inexorable net and dragged ever nearer to
the abyss. Carmichael, who had been leaning forward in his place, tore
himself away from the preacher with an effort, and moved where he could
see the congregation. Campbell was drinking in every word as one for
the first time in his life perfectly satisfied. Menzies was huddled
into a heap in the top of his pew a man justly blasted by the anger of
the Eternal. Men were white beneath the tan, and it was evident that
some of the women would soon fall a-weeping. Children had crept close
to their mothers under a vague sense of danger, and a girl in the choir
watched the preacher with dilated eyeballs, like an animal fascinated
by terror.
"It is as a sword piercing the heart to receive this truth, but it is a
truth and must be believed. There are hundreds of thousands in the
past who were born and lived and died and were damned for the glory of
God. There are hundreds of thousands in this day who have been born
and are living and shall die and be damned for the glory of God. There
are hundreds of thousands in the future who shall be born and shall
live and shall die and shall be damned for the glory of God. All
according to the will of God, and none dare say nay nor change the
purpose of the Eternal." For some time the oil in the lamps had been
failing--since the Rabbi had been speaking for nigh two hours--and as
he came to an end of this passage the light began to flicker and die.
First a lamp at the end of Burnbrae's pew went out, and then another in
the front. The preacher made as though he would have spoken, but was
silent, and the congregation watched four lamps sink into darkness at
intervals of half a minute. There only remained the two pulpit lamps,
and in their light the people saw the Rabbi lift his right hand for the
first time.
"Shall . . . not . . . the . . . Judge . . . of all the earth . . .
do . . . right?" The two lamps went out together and a great sigh rose
from the people. At the back of the kirk a child wailed, and somewhere
in the front a woman's voice--it was never proved to be Elspeth
Macfadyen--said audibly, "God have mercy upon us." The Rabbi had sunk
back into the seat and buried his face in his hands, and through the
window over his head the moonlight was pouring into the church like
unto the far-off radiance from the White Throne.
[Illustration: "SHALL . . . NOT . . . THE . . . JUDGE . . . OF ALL THE
EARTH . . . DO . . . RIGHT?"]
When Carmichael led the Rabbi into the manse he could feel the old man
trembling from head to foot, and he would touch neither meat nor drink,
nor would he speak for a space.
"Are you there, John?"--and he put out his hand to Carmichael, who had
placed him in the big study chair, and was sitting beside him in
silence.
"I dare not withdraw nor change any word that I spake in the name of
the Lord this day, but . . . it is my infirmity . . . I wish I had
never been born."
"It was awful," said Carmichael, and the Rabbi's head again fell on his
breast.
"John,"--and Saunderson looked up,--"I would give ten thousand worlds
to stand in the shoes of that good man who conveyed me from Kilbogie
yesterday, and with whom I had very pleasant fellowship concerning the
patience of the saints.
"It becometh not any human being to judge his neighbour, but it seemed
to me from many signs that he was within the election of God, and even
as we spoke of Polycarp and the martyrs who have overcome by the blood
of the Lamb, it came unto me with much power, 'Lo, here is one beside
you whose name is written in the Lamb's Book of Life, and who shall
enter through the gates into the city'; and grace was given me to
rejoice in his joy, but I . . . "--and Carmichael could have wept for
the despair in the Rabbi's voice.
"Dear Rabbi!"--for once the confidence of youth was smitten at the
sight of a spiritual conflict beyond its depth--"you are surely . . .
depreciating yourself. . . . Burnbrae is a good man, but compared with
you . . . is not this like to the depression of Elijah?" Carmichael
knew, however, he was not fit for such work as the comforting of Rabbi
Saunderson, and had better have held his peace.
"It may be that I understand the letter of Holy Scripture better than
some of God's children, although I be but a babe even in this poor
knowledge, but such gifts are only as the small dust of the balance.
He will have mercy on whom He will have mercy.
"John," said the Rabbi suddenly, and with strong feeling, "was it your
thought this night as I declared the sovereignty of God that I judged
myself of the elect, and was speaking as one himself hidden for ever in
the secret place of God?"
"I . . . did not know," stammered Carmichael, whose utter horror at the
unrelenting sermon had only been tempered by his love for the preacher.
"You did me wrong, John, for then had I not dared to speak at all after
that fashion; it is not for a vessel of mercy filled unto overflowing
with the love of God to exalt himself above the vessels . . . for whom
there is no mercy. But he may plead with them who are in like case
with himself to . . . acknowledge the Divine Justice."
Then the pathos of the situation overcame Carmichael, and he went over
to the bookcase and leant his head against certain volumes, because
they were weighty and would not yield. Next day he noticed that one of
them was a Latin _Calvin_ that had travelled over Europe in learned
company, and the other a battered copy of Jonathan Edwards that had
come from the house of an Ayrshire farmer.
"Forgive me that I have troubled you with the concerns of my soul,
John"--the Rabbi could only stand with an effort--"they ought to be
between a man and his God. There is another work laid to my hand for
which there is no power in me now. During the night I shall ask
whether the cup may not pass from me, but if not, the will of God be
done."
Carmichael slept but little, and every time he woke the thought was
heavy upon him that on the other side of a narrow wall the holiest man
he knew was wrestling in darkness of soul, and that he had added to the
bitterness of the agony.
THE WOUNDS OF A FRIEND
Winter has certain mornings which redeem weeks of misconduct, when the
hoar frost during the night has resilvered every branch and braced the
snow upon the ground, and the sun rises in ruddy strength and drives
out of sight every cloud and mist, and moves all day through an expanse
of unbroken blue, and is reflected from the dazzling whiteness of the
earth as from a mirror. Such a sight calls a man from sleep with
authority, and makes his blood tingle, and puts new heart in him, and
banishes the troubles of the night. Other mornings Winter joins in the
conspiracy of principalities and powers to daunt and crush the human
soul. No sun is to be seen, and the grey atmosphere casts down the
heart, the wind moans and whistles in fitful gusts, the black clouds
hang low in threatening masses, now and again a flake of snow drifts in
the wind. A storm is near at hand, not the thunder-shower of summer,
with its warm rain and the kindly sun ever in ambush, but dark and
blinding snow, through which even a game-keeper cannot see six yards,
and in which weary travellers lie down to rest and die.
The melancholy of this kind of day had fallen on Saunderson, whose face
was ashen, and who held Carmichael's hand with such anxious affection
that it was impossible to inquire how he had slept, and it would have
been a banalité to remark upon the weather. After the Rabbi had been
compelled to swallow a cup of milk by way of breakfast, it was evident
that he was ready for speech.
"What is it, Rabbi?" as soon as they were again settled in the study.
"If you did not . . . like my sermon, tell me at once. You know that I
am one of your boys, and you ought to . . . help me." Perhaps it was
inseparable from his youth, with its buoyancy and self-satisfaction,
and his training in a college whose members only knew by rumour of the
existence of other places of theological learning, that Carmichael had
at that moment a pleasing sense of humility and charity. Had it been a
matter of scholastic lore, of course neither he nor more than six men
in Scotland could have met the Rabbi in the gate. With regard to
modern thought, Carmichael knew that the good Rabbi had not read _Ecce
Homo_, and was hardly, well . . . up to date. He would not for the
world hint such a thing to the dear old man, nor even argue with him;
but it was flattering to remember that the attack could be merely one
of blunderbusses, in which the modern thinker would at last intervene
and save the ancient scholar from humiliation.
"Well, Rabbi?" and Carmichael tried to make it easy.
"Before I say what is on my heart, John, you will grant an old man who
loves you one favour. So far as in you lies you will bear with me if
that which I have to say, and still more that which my conscience will
compel me to do, is hard to flesh and blood."
"Didn't we settle that last night in the vestry?" and Carmichael was
impatient; "is it that you do not agree with the doctrine of the Divine
Fatherhood? We younger men are resolved to base Christian doctrine on
the actual Scriptures, and to ignore mere tradition."
"An excellent rule, my dear friend," cried the Rabbi, wonderfully
quickened by the challenge, "and with your permission and for our
mutual edification we shall briefly review all passages bearing on the
subject in hand--using the original, as will doubtless be your wish,
and you correcting my poor recollection."
About an hour afterwards, and when the Rabbi was only entering into the
heart of the matter, Carmichael made the bitter discovery--without the
Rabbi having even hinted at such a thing--that his pet sermon was a
mass of boyish crudities, and this reverse of circumstances was some
excuse for his pettishness.
"It does not seem to me that it is worth our time to haggle about the
usage of Greek words or to count texts: I ground my position on the
general meaning of the Gospels and the sense of things"; and Carmichael
stood on the hearthrug in a very superior attitude.
"Let that pass then, John, and forgive me if I appeared to battle about
words, as certain scholars of the olden time were fain to do, for in
truth it is rather about the hard duty before me than any imperfection
in your teaching I would speak"; and the Rabbi glanced nervously at the
young minister.
"We are both Presbyters of Christ's Church, ordained after the order of
primitive times, and there are laid on us certain heavy charges and
responsibilities from which we may not shrink, as we shall answer to
the Lord at the great day."
Carmichael's humiliation was lost in perplexity, and he sat down,
wondering what the Rabbi intended.
"If any Presbyter should see his brother fall into one of those faults
of private life that do beset us all in our present weakness, then he
doth well and kindly to point it out unto his brother; and if his
brother should depart from the faith as they talk together by the way,
then it is a Presbyter's part to convince him of his error and restore
him."
The Rabbi cast an imploring glance, but Carmichael had still no
understanding.
"But if one Presbyter should teach heresy to his flock in the hearing
of another . . . even though it break the other's heart, is not the
path of duty fenced up on either side, verily a straight, narrow way,
and hard for the feet to tread?"
"You have spoken to me, Rabbi, and . . . cleared yourself"--Carmichael
was still somewhat sore--"and I'll promise not to offend you again in
an action sermon."
"Albeit you intend it not so, yet are you making it harder for me to
speak. . . . See you not . . . that I . . . that necessity is laid on
me to declare this matter to my brother Presbyters in court
assembled . . . but not in hearing of the people?" Then there was a
stillness in the room, and the Rabbi, although he had closed his eyes,
was conscious of the amazement on the young man's face.
"Do you mean to say," speaking very slowly, as one taken utterly aback,
"that our Rabbi would come to my . . . to the Sacrament and hear me
preach, and . . . report me for heresy to the Presbytery? Rabbi, I
know we don't agree about some things, and perhaps I was a little . . .
annoyed a few minutes ago because you . . . know far more than I do,
but that is nothing. For you to prosecute one of your boys and be the
witness yourself. . . . Rabbi, you can't mean it . . . say it's a
mistake."
The old man only gave a deep sigh.
"If it were Dowbiggin or . . . any man except you, I wouldn't care one
straw, rather enjoy the debate, but you whom we have loved and looked
up to and boasted about, why, it's like . . . a father turning against
his sons."
The Rabbi made no sign.
"You live too much alone, Rabbi," and Carmichael began again as the
sense of the tragedy grew on him, "and nurse your conscience till it
gets over tender; no other man would dream of . . . prosecuting a . . .
fellow-minister in such circumstances. You have spoken to me like a
father, surely that is enough"; and in his honest heat the young fellow
knelt down by the Rabbi's chair and took his hand.
[Illustration: "YOU HAVE SPOKEN TO ME LIKE A FATHER: SURELY THAT IS
ENOUGH."]
A tear rolled down the Rabbi's cheek, and he looked fondly at the lad.
"Your words pierce me as sharp swords, John; spare me, for I can do
none otherwise; all night I wrestled for release, but in vain."
Carmichael had a sudden revulsion of feeling, such as befalls emotional
and ill-disciplined natures when they are disappointed and mortified.
"Very good, Doctor Saunderson"--Carmichael rose awkwardly and stood on
the hearthrug again, an elbow on the mantelpiece--"you must do as you
please and as you think right. I am sorry that I . . . pressed you so
far, but it was on grounds of our . . . friendship.
"Perhaps you will tell me as soon as you can what you propose to do,
and when you will bring . . . this matter before the Presbytery. My
sermon was fully written and . . . is at your disposal."
While this cold rain beat on the Rabbi's head he moved not, but at its
close he looked at Carmichael with the appeal of a dumb animal in his
eyes.
"The first meeting of Presbytery is on Monday, but you would no doubt
consider that too soon; is there anything about dates in the order of
procedure for heresy?" and Carmichael made as though he would go over
to the shelves for a law book.
"John," cried the Rabbi--his voice full of tears--rising and following
the foolish lad, "is this all you have in your heart to say unto me?
Surely, as I stand before you, it is not my desire to do such a thing,
for I would rather cut off my right hand.