THE MINISTER IN LOVE
"The sun and the bees,
And the face of her love through the green,
The shades of the trees,
And the poppy heads glowing between:
His heart asked no more,
'Twas full as the hawthorn in May,
And Life lay before,
As the hours of a long summer day."
For a week there was no change in the usual course and tenor of life at
the Little House. Dr. Macrae read or wrote all morning, and after his
lunch he dressed with care and rode over to the Hall, took a late dinner
with Lady Cramer, and returned home about ten o'clock. He usually took a
manuscript with him, and often spoke of reading it to Lady Cramer.
Sometimes, also, he alluded to other company who were present, most
frequently to the elderly Earl Travers, whom he described as an
ultramontane Presbyterian. "He sits in a Free Church," he would say,
with a slight tone of anger, "but his place is in one of the churches
yet subject to Caesar, not in a Free Church, which is a Law unto itself;
its title deeds being only in the Registry above." Marion was proud of
his enthusiasm, but Mrs. Caird told herself, privately, that Earl
Travers had no doubt stimulated its character. For it was evident he
disliked Travers on grounds more personal than the government of the
Church.
Travers had been a close friend of the late Lord Cramer, and he took his
place quietly but authoritatively at the side of his widow; indeed it
appeared to Dr. Macrae that, on the very first night he met him at the
Hall, Lady Cramer referred questions to the Earl that might have been
left to his judgment. Even then, Dr. Macrae had an incipient jealousy of
the Earl, who had just returned from a twelve months' cruise, rich in
charming anecdotes of entertaining persons and events.
Really, Travers was much interested by the Minister and, hearing that he
was going to preach in Cramer Church on the following Sabbath, he made
an engagement at once with Lady Cramer to go with her to the service.
She was delighted with the proposal and, with an intimate look at Dr.
Macrae and a private handclasp as she passed him, vowed it would be the
greatest pleasure the Earl could offer her. "I have always longed," she
continued, "to hear one of those famous sermons that are said to thrill
the largest congregations in Glasgow."
Certainly Dr. Macrae was flattered and much pleased. He had no fear of
falling below any standard set up for him, yet he kept closely to
himself all the previous Saturday, for he was gathering together his
personality, so largely diffused by his late happiness, and flooding the
sermon he was to deliver with streams of his own feeling and intellect.
And, oh, how good he felt this exercise to be! For some hours he rose
like a tower far above the restless sea of his passions. He put every
doubt under his feet, he made himself forget he ever had a doubt.
The next morning was in itself sacramental, a Sabbath morning
"so cool, so calm, so bright;
The bridal of the earth and sky,"
filled the soul with peace, and everywhere there was a sense of rest.
Even the cart horses knew it was Sunday, and were standing at the field
gates, idle and happy. In the pale sunlight the moor stretched away to
the mountains, and silent and serious little groups of people were
crossing it from every side, but all making for one point--Cramer
Church.
Dr. Macrae had been driven there very early and, during the hour before
service, he was in the small vestry at the entrance of the church, and
was, as he desired, left quite alone. In that hour he rose to the
grandest altitude of his nature and, when the cessation of footsteps
told him the congregation was gathered, he opened the vestry door. Then
a very aged elder set wide the pulpit door, and Dr. Macrae--tall,
stately, long-gowned and white-banded--walked with a serious
deliberation unto that High Place from which he was to break the Bread
of Life to the waiting worshipers before him. There was an irresistible
power, both in him and going forth from him, that drew everyone present
to himself. His burning, vehement spirit found its way in full force to
his face, and it infected, nay, it went like a dart, to souls sleepy and
careless in Zion.
To the Episcopalian the prayers are everything; to the Presbyterian it
is the sermon; and there was a sigh of satisfaction when Dr. Macrae read
with clear, powerful enunciation the last four verses of the sixth
chapter of Hebrews, and boldly announced that he would speak "first of
_God the Chooser_, then of _God the Slain_, then of _God the
Comforter_."
From these great seminal truths he reasoned of righteousness and
judgment to come with a penetrative, judicial power; but he quickly
passed this stage and entered into their enforcement with an
overwhelming insistence. Something was to be _done_rather than
explained. The sermon was almost fiercely theological, but through it
all there was that wonderfully inspired look, that diviner mind, that
"little more" which declares the Superman to be in control.
Two remarks showed something of the personal struggle that he was going
through. Speaking of the doubting spirit prevalent in the whole
religious world, he said: "You will find in the words of my text the
remedy: that, by two immutable things in which it was impossible for God
to lie, we might have a strong consolation who have fled for refuge to
lay hold upon the hope set before us." And, again, very pointedly, he
asked: "When we have done wrong, how shall we remedy the wrong? I will
tell you. We must work day and night, as men work on a railway when the
bridge is broken down. For all traffic between our souls and heaven will
be interrupted until we get this ruin--this reason for God's
withdrawal--out of the way."
The last sentences of his sermon were given to defending the creed of
his country, and the Minister who does this clasps the heart of his
people to him. He preached an hour and the time was as ten minutes. No
one moved until he closed the Book and, with a glowing face and a joyful
voice, gave the benediction.
He looked ten years younger than he did when entering the pulpit. He
appeared to be much taller and of a larger bulk, and his face shone and
his eyes glowed with more than mortal light. For, at that hour of
superman control, the virtue of the spiritual erected and informed the
physical. The congregation longed to speak to him and to touch his hand,
but he walked through the gazing throng with uplifted face and towering
form, silent and enwrapt with his own power and eloquence, and, going
into the little vestry to unrobe, remained there until the Earl and Lady
Cramer had departed, and only a few humble and fervent worshipers
lingered thoughtfully among the graves in the churchyard. To these he
spoke, and they looked into his gracious, handsome face, touched almost
reverently the hand he offered and to their dying day talked of him as
of a man inspired and miraculous, a true Preacher of His Word.
At his own door Marion met him with a kiss, a thing so unusual that it
had a kind of solemnity in it. "My good, wonderful father!" she
whispered, "there is no man can preach like you!" His heart beat
pleasantly to her love and admiration, and, though Mrs. Caird only
looked at him as he took his place at the table, he was as well
satisfied as he had been with Marion's greeting. He could see that she
had been weeping. The light of prayer was on her face, and from the
whole household he heard the silent psalm of thanksgiving.
That day he remained at home, and on Monday he did the same. He thought
he was honestly "working day and night as men work on a railway when the
bridge is broken." Something had gone wrong between God and his soul.
The Power with the multitude which had been given him he still retained,
but that wonderful faculty within us which feels after and finds the
Divinity did not respond to his call. Yet he knew well that we have our
being in God, that God's ear lies close to our lips, that it is always
listening, that we sigh into it, even as we sleep and dream. Why did not
God give him again the personal joy of His salvation? He walked hour
after hour all Monday up and down his study, examining and defending
himself; for this attitude is almost certainly our first one when we
come penitently to God. Yet Dr. Macrae knew well that only with blinding
tears and breaking heart can the sinner go to His Maker and plead: "Cast
me not away from Thy Presence, take not thy Holy Spirit from me. Restore
unto me the joy of Thy Salvation."
Tuesday he was physically weary and when he opened the book he was
considering, Hugh Miller's "Red Stone," he could not read it. The words
passed before his eyes, but his mind refused to notice them, and he
threw down the volume and resigned himself to religious reverie. His
eyes were on his closed Bible, and he was recalling in a regretful mood
the power and splendor of its promises and assurances. He was "feeling
after God, if haply he might find Him," trying to call up arguments for
his existence, his personality, His loving and constant interflow into
the affairs of men. But he had lost the habit of Faith, and was
continually finding himself face to face with the incomprehensible
problems which Science may propound but can never answer: Whence come
we? Whither do we go? Why was man created? Why does he continue to
exist? What has become of the vast multitudes of the dead? What will
become of the vaster multitudes that may yet tread the earth?
But ever when he reached the outermost rim of this useless thought,
these awful and sacred questions still called to his soul for an answer.
Indeed, he felt acutely that he had not gained from Science any
intelligible religious system; nor yet any belief which he could
profess, or which he could defend from an assailant. He could find in it
nothing that a man could have recourse to in the hour of trouble, or the
day of death; and, when Mrs. Caird came into his study about the noon
hour, he felt compelled to speak to her. With a quick, nervous motion he
laid his hand upon some books at his side and complained wearily:
"All they say about God is so terribly inadequate, Jessy."
"Of course it is inadequate," she answered. "When men know nothing, how
can they teach, especially about Him,
... 'Who, though vast and strange
When with _intellect_ we gaze,
Yet close to the heart steals in
In a thousand tender ways.'"
"O my dear sister, I am so miserable!"
"My dear Ian, when we withdraw ourselves from that circle within which
the Bible is a definite authority, we must be miserable."
"Why?"
"We have then only a negative religion, and pray what is there between
us and the next lower down negation? And I assure you it would become
easy to repeat this descending movement again and again. Indeed, there
could be no reason for making a stand at any point, until----"
"Until?"
"The end!"
"Then?"
"There might come the dread of sliding away toward the brink--and over
the brink--of the precipice."
"Then what help is there for a man who has taken this road ignorantly
and innocently?"
And Jessy, with the light and joy of perfect assurance on her face,
answered, "There is the breadth, the depth, the boundless length, the
inaccessible height of Christ's love, which is the love of God."
Ian did not answer immediately and, Mrs. Caird, walking to the window,
saw the Cramer carriage at the gate.
"Lady Cramer is coming," she said. "I will go and meet her."
Then Ian saw Lady Cramer fluttering up the garden walk, a lovely vision
in pink muslin and white lace, carrying a dainty basket of ripe apricots
in her hand. He thought he had not been looking for her visit, but Mrs.
Caird could have told him a different story. She knew by the care
bestowed on his morning toilet that he was expecting her, but she was a
considerate woman and made an excuse to leave them alone a few minutes.
"I have come for Marion," she said. "I am going to do a little shopping,
and she has such good taste--and I thought you would like the
apricots--I expected you yesterday--I looked for you even Sunday. You
did not come--I was unhappy at your neglect."
He stood gravely in front of her, looking down at her pretty, pleading
face, her beautiful hair, her garments of rose and white. He did not
speak. He was trying to recall the words he had resolved to say to her,
but, when she lifted her eyes, they hastened out of his memory; and when
she had laid her hand on his and asked, "Have I grieved you, my dear
Ian? Have you forgotten that you loved me?"
"My God, Ada!" he cried in a low, passionate voice, "My God! I love you
better than my own soul."
"You will dine with me this evening?"
"This evening, yes, yes, I will come."
"If you have any scruples--if you do not wish--if----"
"Oh, you know well, Ada, that I am dying to come to you, to taste again
the sweetness of your embrace, to know the miraculous joy of your kiss.
You know, Ada, that you hold my heart in your small, open hands."
"Ian, you are the greatest man in Scotland," she answered. "The Earl
says you have the eloquence of Apollo and the close reasoning of Paul."
"And you, Ada?"
"I have wanted to be good, Ian, ever since Sunday. Help me, dear one. I
am so weak and foolish."
Then he took her in his arms and kissed his answer on her lips; and, in
a few moments, Mrs. Caird and Marion came laughing into the room. And it
is needless to say that in the evening Dr. Macrae took dinner as usual
with Lady Cramer. The hours they were together were really what Dr.
Macrae said they were, the happiest hours in all his life.
They were indeed so mutually happy that Lady Cramer began this night to
take herself seriously to task after them. She dismissed her maid early,
saying, "I am sleepy," but she did not go to sleep. She wrapped herself
in a down coverlet and took an easy chair by an open window. The secret
silence of the night was what she wanted. It was the fifth day of the
moon, and its crescent moved with a melancholy air in the western
heavens, while the exquisite perfume of the double velvet rose scented
the cool air far and near. This rose is forgotten now, but then its
leaves were kept among a lady's clothing, and imparted to it an ethereal
fragrance far beyond the art of the perfumer. It was Lady Cramer's first
reflection.
"The roses are in perfection," she thought, "the leaves must be gathered
to-morrow. They give my dresses the only scent I can endure. Ian always
notices it. He says it is so delicate and delicious that too much of it
would make him faint with pleasure. _Heigho!_ I have had a few hours
that I dare not repeat. I am so susceptible--so foolish. This affair
must be stopped. I will not allow it to go further. I dare not. I should
become a Minister's wife if I did. Could I think of that? Decidedly not.
I love him, yes. I love him, but I cannot sacrifice my life to make his
life sweeter. Should I make it sweeter? I am sure I would not. Religion
is very well on a Sunday morning, nice and ladylike, and I generally
enjoy it; but every day in your life is too much. I endured eight years
with an old noble that I might get entry into his caste. I cannot throw
that privilege away for love. No, I must marry a duke--good-bye, my
handsome Ian! We have had some happy hours together--but it is now time
to part."
She sat discussing this subject with what she called her "heart" till
long after midnight; then the still, sweet atmosphere was invaded by the
sudden impetuous trample of a ghostly wind. The moon had set, and the
sky was bending darkly over a darker world.
"Those clouds terrify me," she whispered. "They seem to look angrily at
me. I shall have bad dreams if I do not go to bed"--and as she did so
she nervously continued her soliloquy. "I dare say this is the hour that
liberates ghosts; such a wind would open all the old doors in this old
house, and the old joys and sorrows would come out. It is not cannie. I
will sleep now, and to-morrow--I will get ready for London."
Dr. Macrae had lingered long on the moor. He had refused the carriage,
feeling that physical motion was the imperative craving of the hour. But
he was in such a miraculous state of rapture that his walking was not
walking; he trod upon the air, the earth was buoyant under his feet. He
knew not, he asked not, whether he was in the body or out of the body.
The exquisite Adalaide loved him. She had promised to be his wife. With
a little cry of joy he recalled that ecstatic moment when she had kissed
on his lips the one little word which made all things sure.
"This is love!" he cried joyfully, lifting his face to the heavens, "and
I have blamed and punished those who have fallen through love! O man
foolish and ignorant of the great temptation!"
He did not sleep. He had neither the wish to sleep nor the need of it.
Never in all his life had he been so keenly alive, so stubbornly awake.
With a face of rapt expectancy he recalled the looks and words and
motions of Adalaide. She had said they would have a year's honeymoon
among the storied cities and churches of the Mediterranean, and he began
to consider what this proposal meant. Certainly it implied his
resignation from the pulpit of the Church of the Disciples. Could he
bear that? Would he like to sit and listen to other men preaching the
Word, while he sat silent? On the previous Sabbath he had shown forth
that irresistible ordination which comes through the call and Hand of
God. Could he deny this great honor and stand like a dumb dog in the
courts of the Lord?
Was love indeed the greatest thing in the world? He was too honest a
thinker to admit this fallacy. In his own congregation he had seen love
set aside for duty, for gold, for power, and he knew young men and women
who had put love behind them in order to remain with helpless parents
and succor them. They had received from their fellow creatures no
particular praise nor indemnity, they had quietly resigned love for the
nobler virtue of duty. Women without number were constantly making this
sacrifice, and should he resign the helpfulness and honor of his
God-given office to this pretender of supreme earthly power? Positively
he refused to entertain for a moment the possibility of casting away the
work God had given him to do.
When he came to this decision the day was sullenly breaking, and he
heard his sister-in-law's voice and the tinkle of the breakfast china.
Then came the call for coffee and he said: "It is just what I wanted,
Jessy. Are we not earlier than usual?"
"Yes," she answered, "but I knew you were awake, and thought your coffee
would be welcome."
"It is. Thank you, Jessy"; and the words were said so pleasantly she met
them with a smile and, as he seemed wishful to talk, she responded
readily to his desire.
"Where is Marion?" he asked.
"In the Land of Sleep and Dreams, wherever that is."
"Nobody knows that, Jessy. There is so much we do not know, and never
can know, that striving for Truth is discouraging."
"Yes, but when we cease striving for Truth we begin striving for
ourselves."
"You reason well, Jessy. Have you studied logic?"
"What would a woman want with the mere faculty of logic? It belongs to
lawyers and men educated in Edinburgh. I can draw an inference from
anything reasonable, but logic is beyond the straight-forwardness of
women and, also, the will of genius. When you were preaching last Sunday
your words were arrows of the Almighty, they did not fly according to
the rules of logic; if they had would they have found the hearts of the
people? I think not. When are we going back to Glasgow, Ian? I am
wearying for it all day long and, sitting alone at night, I would rather
hear the melancholy human noises of the street than the song of the
nightingale."
"For two more Sabbaths, Jessy, there is a minister in my place. After
that we will go home."
"What kind of a minister?"
"A Free Church minister."
"That stands to reason and goes without saying. I mean is he sure on
Moses and reverent with the Gospels? Is he a believer or a doubter? That
is what I mean."
"Who can tell? If a good man doubts, he does not babble his doubts from
the pulpit."
"What are you doing now, Ian?"
"I am bringing dogmas to Scripture and trying to make Scripture agree
with them. People read too much now. When I was a lad, Joseph Milner's
'Church History,' and Newton on the 'Prophecies' were in every house.
They were good books, fragrant with home piety, and with their Bible
were all men and women wanted."
"And now it is even fashionable to have a book against the Bible lying
on the parlor table. It is not a good change, Ian."
"The change is the spirit of our era, Jessy, but God is directing it. We
can do nothing. We are only clay in the hands of the potter."
"Even so, but the potter does not make vessels for the express purpose
of breaking them, and I am sure it is wrong to say, 'We can do nothing.'
Our influence, be it good or bad, has had a commencement, and it will
never have an end. I heard Dr. Wardlaw say that, and, also, that what is
done is done, and it will work with the working universe, openly or
secretly, forever. When Jethro, the Midianitish priest and grazier,
hired an Hebrew outlaw as his herdsman, he doubtless thought little of
the circumstance; but Moses still lives, and busies himself in the daily
business of all nations. Your work has been set you, Ian; hold fast your
faith in it, and do not dare to desert it."
"I was thinking your thought an hour ago, Jessy. My will is to finish
the work given me to do. If I allowed my will to be overpowered by any
circumstance, I should be the sport of Fate. I should indeed be then
_Not Elect_." With these words he rose, straight and strong, full of
confidence in his own will to do right and, with an encouraging smile to
Jessy, he went to his study.
It was a chill, dull day without sunshine, but Dr. Macrae carried his
own sunshine. The morning would get over, and Ada would be sure to send
a close carriage for him in the afternoon. Then he would bring to a
clear understanding the fact that marriage could not separate him from
his spiritual work. He was dressed and waiting long before he could
reasonably expect the carriage, but at three o'clock it had not arrived,
and he was so wretched he resolved to take the Victoria and drive over
to the Hall. As this intention was forming in his mind a servant from
Cramer brought him a letter. He opened it with anxious haste, and read
the following lines:
DEAR, DEAR IAN--I received this morning a most astonishing and
peremptory letter from my lawyer, directing me to come to
London by the next train. It is a purely business letter, dear,
but you know we cannot neglect business, especially as our
contemplated year's travel will draw deeply on our resources. I
shall not forget you; that would be impossible! I shall be at
the railway station at four o'clock; be sure to meet me there.
It would be dreadful not to bid you good-bye.
YOUR ADA.
Four o'clock! It was then a quarter after three; there was barely time
to reach the station, but half-a-crown to the driver gave him five
minutes in which to see his beautiful mistress in her new winter gown of
dark blue broadcloth, trimmed with sable fur. The small blue and brown
toque above her brown, braided hair gave her quite a new look. She was
so chic, so radiant, so loving. And, in some of the occult ways known to
women, she managed in those few minutes to make him both happy and
hopeful. Then the guard held open the door of her carriage, she was in
the train, the door was shut, the cry of "All right" ran along the
moving line and, with a heart feeling empty and forlorn, he returned to
the Little House.
"Lady Cramer has gone to London," he said to Mrs. Caird, and she looked
into her brother-in-law's face and understood.
There was nothing now for him but reading, and he took up the books
waiting for him and tried to forget in Scientific Religion the pitiless
aching and longing of love; and he was glad, also, that the minister who
had been filling the pulpit of the Church of the Disciples during his
month's rest proposed to come to Cramer and stay part of the last week
with him. He hoped they might be able to talk over together some of the
startling religious ideas he was then reading and, perhaps, receive help
from his more advanced age and wider experience.
Mrs. Caird doubted it as soon as she saw the man. He had a handsome
physical appearance with such drawbacks as attend a long course of
self-indulgence. His stoutness reduced his height, he had become
slightly bald, and he wore glasses; so Dr. Macrae's slim, straight
figure, his fine eyes and hair, and his good, healthy coloring, moved
the brother cleric to a moment's envy.
"I used to be as natty and bright as you, Macrae," he said, "but age,
sir, age--the years tell on us."
Dr. Macrae met him at the railway station with the Victoria, and he
admired the turnout very much. "That is a fine machine," he remarked;
"it must have cost you a pretty penny."
"It is not mine," answered Dr. Macrae. "It belongs to Lady Cramer. I
have, by her kindness, the use of it this summer."
"What an unusual kindness!"
"Also of her dower house, with all its beautiful furnishings. Very
little you will see in it belongs to me."
"I have never fallen on such luck. My church is large, but poor--poor.
There are a few wealthy families--but--but they do not lift themselves
above the ordinaries of collection--the plate and the printed lists."
"Yes."
"And, even so, I generally think scorn of their donations. I suppose you
are on a very easy footing with Lady Cramer--friendly, I mean."
"Yes, we are good friends."
He was in a fit of admiration with everything he saw, the antique
homeliness of the parlors, the lavender on the window sills, the
Worcester china on the table. He looked critically at the latter, and
said with a knowing air, "It belongs to the best period, having the
square mark on it." The light shone on olives and grapes, on cut glass
and silver, and specially on a claret jug of Worcester, with its exotic
birds, its lasting gold, and its scale-blue ground like sapphire. He
had the artistic temperament, and these beautiful things appealed to him
in a way that astonished Dr. Macrae, whose temperament was of spiritual
mold, and had not been destitute of even ascetic tendencies in his
youth.
He had, therefore, little sympathy with his guest's enthusiasms; indeed,
it rather pleased him to strip himself bare of all the beauty around
him. "Not one of these lovely things is mine," he said. "I should not
know what to do with them. I would rather have a few deal shelves full
of good books."
"You don't know yourself, Macrae," was the answer. "The possession of
artistic beauty develops the taste for it. When you are rich----"
"I shall never be rich."
"You have a fine income."
"I save nothing from it; a man who tries to save both his money and his
soul has a task too hard for me to manage."
It must be acknowledged that Mrs. Caird took a dislike to the man, and
she made Dr. Macrae feel that it was important he and his visitor should
go to Glasgow on Thursday. "Take him to Bath Street," she said. "Maggie
will provide for you; besides, I am sending Kitty down to-morrow, and he
will be a hindrance to me here."
Wednesday was very wet and the two ministers had perforce to remain in
the house, and in one of the exigencies of their prolonged
conversations Dr. Macrae unfortunately referred to the pile of
scientific religious books lying on his table. Then his visitor rose and
looked at them.
"Yes," he said with a great sigh, "we are very scientific to-day, with
our 'tendencies' and 'streams of influence' and our various 'thought
movements.' They are all purely material."
"They cannot be that," replied Dr. Macrae, impetuously. "Streams of
influence imply spiritual beings, and movements of thought must come
from thinkers."
"Agreed," was the reply, "but you cannot call 'a stream of tendency,' or
'a power that makes for righteousness,' God. No, sir, you cannot,
without striking at the very foundation of Theism. The next step would
be to deny the supernatural guidance of the universe and of life. And
the next? What would it be?"
"I know not. Such questions are mere spiritual curiosity. Keep your
thumb down on them."
"I will tell you. The morality based on the supernatural would fail,
and, unless a man had found a scheme of scientific morality based on the
natural instead of the supernatural, he would be wrecked on the rock of
his passions. The question arises, then--is there such a scheme?"
"You must answer your own question, Dr. Scott. As far as I can see, if
there is in scientific philosophy a rule of life that can take the place
of the Bible and Christianity, it must be able to guide the ignorant and
humble, and restrain and comfort men. Philosophy failed Cicero at the
hour of trial, and who would offer to the mourner, or the outcast, a
chapter of scientific philosophy? It would be feeding hunger on straw."
"See here, Macrae, you are going further than I have any desire to
follow you. I am a licensed preacher of the Scotch Church. My articles
stipulate that I shall preach the doctrines of Christianity as
elucidated by the creed of John Calvin. That is the extent of my
obligation--the full extent of it."
"No."
"Yes. I chose the profession of Divinity, as my brother chose that of
the Law. Both are recognized means of business. I accepted Divinity as
such. I agreed to preach Calvinism to those who chose to come to my
church--to my place of business, really--and listen to me."
"Do you believe what you preach?"
"That is another question. Answer it yourself, Macrae. I can only say
that, in preparing for the profession of Divinity at St. Andrews
Divinity Hall, it was understood I would preach Calvinism. There was no
specification concerning my belief or non-belief in it. I was licensed
to be a preacher of Calvinism, and I have never preached anything else.
My brother has the authority of the courts to be a pleader for
criminals. He pleads well for them, and he does not much care whether
they are guilty or innocent. You see, Macrae, this preaching is a
professional business. Men are qualified for it, as men are qualified
for law or medicine. They serve--just as Divinity does--rich and poor,
good and bad. I do not know but what they are as reputable and useful
'divines' as we are."
"Supposing you were a sceptic--as many now are--would you go on
preaching?"
"Unquestionably. Pray, why not? What I believe is between my Maker and
myself. My congregation have nothing to do with it. My belief or
non-belief would not injure or improve my sermons. I should in either
case preach a good Calvinistic sermon; that is what I qualified myself
for. It is my business. If you have been in London you have seen in the
great thoroughfares men in scarlet blouses, whose business it is to
direct strangers to the places they wish to find. Nobody asks them about
their personal religion. If they are good guides to those seeking
certain places, they fulfil their duty. I am in just such a position. So
are you."
"If I thought so, I would leave it at once."
"If you had a wife and five children you would put their comfort before
your own feelings. That stands to reason. All this talk about the higher
criticism is like the sickly talk of the higher civilization; it is
anemia in some form or other. Macrae, we have our duty to the Church. We
are pledged and sworn to that. It is as much the work given us to do as
plowing and sowing are the farmer's work."
"But the Truth--the Truth, Doctor!"
"What is Truth, Macrae? Who knows? The Truth of yesterday is the error
of to-day."
"Then, it never was Truth, for Truth is unaffected by time, and remains
a witness of the past, the present, and the future."
Then the visiting cleric struck the table heavily with his closed hand
and, with a fierce intensity, whispered,
"O Man! Man! what if all this religion should be a dream!"
And Dr. Macrae answered, "Then, where is the Reality?"
Both men were silent, but in the eyes of both there was that look which
is only seen in the eyes of men who are defrauding their own souls.
In a few moments there was the tinkle of a small silver bell, and Dr.
Macrae said, "Tea is ready," and they rose together. Passing the parlor
they heard Marion trying a new song, and they loitered a moment or two
and listened, as very slowly and softly she asked:
"What says thy song, thou joyous thrush,
Up in the walnut tree?"
"I love my Love, because I know
My Love loves me."
A little sadly they entered the parlor, but the blazing fire threw warm
gleams on the handsomely set table; and the tempting odors of young
hyson, fresh bread, and a rook pie filled the room. Involuntarily
everyone smiled and sat down gladly to the dainty, delicate food before
them; and Dr. Macrae said to his friend:
"Life is full of emotions. Such a variety of them, too!"
"And all good--or, at least, pretty much so. A rook pie! That is a
luxury indeed! I suppose there is a rookery at Cramer."
"A very ancient and a very large one," answered Dr. Macrae, and he
recognized in his own voice and manner that slight sense of
proprietorship which flavors a coming good. He was ashamed of it, and
made some foolish remark about the rooks being a present. "The birds are
not in the market," he said, "and, if they were, a poor minister could
not buy them."
"You are a fortunate man. The country is full of blessings. I wish I
lived in the country. You must like it, Macrae."
"I am of _Touchstone's_ opinion--in respect that it is in the fields, it
pleaseth me well; but, in respect that it is not in the city, it is
tedious. That reminds me, we shall leave for the city early in the
morning."
"Not too early, I hope?"
"About ten o'clock."
"That will do very well."
The men were up early, but Mrs. Caird saw that Ian had spent a sleepless
night. Indeed, his conversations with Dr. Scott had raised many serious
questions in his mind. Was it possible that this doubt of God's
existence--of the inspiration of the Bible--of the dogma of eternal
punishment and other vital points of Christian belief was not an
uncommon condition of the ministerial mind, not only in Calvinistic
churches but throughout the creeds of Christendom?
"There is no absolute Faith in any Protestant Church, no matter how its
creed is written," Dr. Scott had said, with an air of knowledge and
certainty; adding, "Belief is an individual thing, Macrae, every man
must discover what is true in his own case."
"What is the most general point of unbelief among ministers?" asked Ian,
and Dr. Scott, after a moment's reflection, answered, "I think,
perhaps, the divinity of Jesus Christ." At these words Mrs. Caird
flushed angrily, and looked at Ian. She expected him to deny this
accusation, but he only cast down his eyes and remained silent. Then,
she said, with great feeling, "Constance Norden has well described the
religion of such men as
'Pale Christianity, with Christ expunged;
Faint unbelief deploring its own skill,
With tomes of metaphysic lore, that sponged
The World away, leaving the lonely Will.'"
And Dr. Scott bowed slightly, but made no other answer to Constance
Norden's accusation.
"Do you think the divergencies of the Bible are a great difficulty,
Jessy?" and Ian looked anxiously at his sister as she answered without a
moment's hesitation, "A want of belief is the chief, is the whole
difficulty. God speaks to men and they will not believe Him."
"You must remember, Mrs. Caird, that we have to talk to congregations
who know all about the system of Christian theology."
"If I was a preacher, Doctor, I would let the system of theology alone.
I would take for granted the divine in men, bring them past every
disability of race, station, or morality, right into the presence of
God, and offer them all God's good will, though they were slaves or
outcasts."
"Such sermons would not do for this era of the Church. They would have
to be gradually introduced."
"Then do not introduce them. Better do nothing than do by halves and
quarters."
"Our civilization, Mrs. Caird----"
"Can never save the world. It cannot even save the individual. Besides,
our civilization, whatever it may be scientifically, is ethically
bankrupt."
"I was going to say, Mrs. Caird, that new truths affecting old clerical
dogmas are generally offensive to old church members. Many good men live
by serving the altar. They must be considered, and your brother and I,
and every minister, knows that our people judge for themselves and only
accept what they desire to accept. Is not that so, Macrae?" And Macrae,
as he looked at his watch, answered indifferently, "You are right,
Doctor. It is now time we took the carriage if we intend to catch our
train."
So there was movement and a little noise, but, amid it, Ian heard his
sister's answer, "To be sure, Dr. Scott, we all know well that Scotsmen
do that which is right in their own eyes--and, also, that which is
wrong."
With the usual pleasant formalities the men went away together, and
Jessy sadly walked through the perishing garden, whispering to herself,
as she did so:
"Through sins of sense, perversities of will,
Through doubt and pain, through guilt and shame, and ill,
Thy pitying eye is on Thy creatures still."
For she knew in her heart that no man could be more miserable than Ian
Macrae. His religion was no longer even a habit, it had become an acute
fever, and all conversation on this tremendous subject seemed so
ineffectual, so mockingly beneath its meaning and its needs. It wearied
his aching heart and brain, and gave him neither hope nor consolation.
For he knew that any reasoned argument would be but the surface
exhibition; it was only the unreasoned and immediate assurance that
could satisfy his soul.