WHEN WILL THE NIGHT BE PAST?
"Alas! God Christ--along the weary lands,
What lone invisible Calvaries are set,
What drooping brows with dews of anguish wet,
What faint outspreading of unwilling hands,
Bound to a viewless cross with viewless bands.
While at the darkest hour what ghosts are met
Of ancient pain and bitter fond regret,
Till the new-risen spirit understands."
Doctor Macrae left London immediately after this interview, but he did
not at once return to Glasgow. He spent two days at Oxford and nearly a
week in the manufacturing towns of Yorkshire, the rest of his leisure in
the historic city of Newcastle. He was interested in what he saw, but
not comforted by it. For he was well aware that all his hopes had been
stripped to the nakedness of a dream. The week days trailed on the
ground and the Sabbaths made no effort to rise to the height of their
birth. For the spiritual center of his being had never yet been in touch
with the spiritual center in the universe, and all philosophies and all
creeds must come back to this sympathetic understanding between the
Comforter and the Comforted, or they come to nothing.
Many years ago he had analyzed prayer by his creed, and felt that it had
nothing to do with troubles so personal and selfish as his love or his
hatred. For some wise purpose this discipline of wasted love had been
given him, and his duty was to bear his loss as manfully as he could.
There had once been a time when he would even have rejoiced to give up
any personal happiness if he thought that by doing so he was learning a
God-sent lesson. He could not do that now. He had been too long looking
_into_ the Deity instead of looking _up_ to Him. He had compelled
himself to question and to qualify until he knew not how to believe nor
yet what to believe. Poor soul! He thought prayer could be reasoned
about! Prayer, which is an unrevealed transaction, beyond the region of
the stars!
At length, the time of his absence from duty being completed, he took a
train for Glasgow, arriving there early in the evening. It was raining
hard, it was dark, and the points of gas light only rendered the
darkness visible. The streets were crowded with men and women in
dripping coats, jostling each other with dripping umbrellas as they
hurried home after their day's work.
In the quiet space of Bath Street the driver of his cab dropped his whip
and stopped in order to regain it; and in those moments Dr. Macrae
noticed a wretched looking man trying to get a few pennies by singing
"The Land of Our Birth." His voice was full of pain and tears, and
Macrae called him and put a shilling in his hand. The beggar's look of
amazement and gratitude was wonderful. He raised the coin as he took it,
and cried out, "_O God!_" and the look and the words fell on Macrae's
heart like a soft shower on a parched land. They called up one of those
tender smiles quite possible, and even natural, to his face, though far
too seldom seen there. In the light of this smile he reached his home,
and the next moment the door opened and Marion and Mrs. Caird stood
waiting with outstretched hands to greet him.
He fell readily into their happy mood, and sat down between them to the
excellent tea waiting for him. And the blessing of the shilling was on
him, and he talked cheerfully of all that he had seen, but added as he
took his large easy-chair on the hearthrug,
"East or West, Home is Best."
Alas! this blessed mood did not last. In a few days he was again
brooding in a hell of his own making. He could not rest his heart on any
affection. Lady Cramer had deceived him, Donald had deserted him, Marion
was restlessly waiting for her lover's return. Then she also would go.
And Jessy Caird's heart was with Donald. He thought of these things
until he felt himself to be a very lonely, desolate man; for the heart
is like a vine, it withers and dies if it has nothing to embrace.
In a deep and overwhelming sense he knew that to obey or to disobey duty
was to say "yes" or "no" to God, but what was his duty? He told himself
that if he could only see the way of duty clear he would take it,
however unpleasant or difficult it might be. Yes, he was sure of that.
But what was his duty? He tried to find out by every logical method
known to him, and every method pointed out some flaw in every other
method.
One morning, at the end of January, Dr. Macrae received a batch of
London newspapers. They were brought to the breakfast table, and he
looked at their number and wondered. He did not seem to understand what
they portended, but Mrs. Caird did. Some womanly instinct told her what
information they brought, and when Macrae did not come to the dinner
table she said softly to Marion, "Lady Cramer is married. I wonder how
he will bear it."
In the middle of the afternoon she took some coffee into the Minister's
study, and at his request sat down beside him. "Stay an hour with me,
Jessy," he said. "I am in trouble."
"I know, Ian."
"She is married."
Jessy nodded slightly, and said: "I know. My dear Ian, you were but a
little child in the hands of Adalaide Cramer. Very likely she thought
she loved you."
"I think she did love me."
"Whom has she married?"
"The Duke of Rotherham."
"She had a great temptation, but no doubt she suffered in giving you up,
even for a dukedom."
"She ought to suffer. I wish her to suffer."
"Then you no longer love her?"
"Loving is now out of the question, but I had, I thought, a great love
for her."
"Had!"
"Yes. I loved Ada until she contemplated making me a partner with her in
the sin of deceiving the man who was then--almost--her husband. After
that I had no hesitation in resigning her. I would not remain in
London--she was very lovable--I might--I think not--but I might----"
"You acted as an honorable man must have done. Danger is an unknown
quantity until you meet it face to face, and in this danger you were
like a swimmer that only tips the tangles and does not know the depth of
the water below them. I am glad you had the courage to leave her. Let
her be dismissed even from your thoughts."
"How should I dare to think of her after those London papers? The
Decalogue and Christ's words concerning its seventh law still stand with
me as a finality. I no longer love her. I am not even angry with her.
She was just the reef on which my life went down. An hour ago I buried
her."
"Your life has not gone down. It ought to be more rich and buoyant for
this very experience. It will be."
"Perhaps. Yet all life's pleasant things have suffered the same change
that Autumn works on the flowery braes of Spring, and I feel,
'My days are as the grass,
Swiftly my seasons pass,
And like the flower of the field I fade.'"
Jessy waited a moment or two, and then replied, "I think, Ian, you might
be just and honorable to the poet. Why do you cut the verse in two? I
will give you the other three lines, as you seem to have forgotten them:
'O Soul, dost thou not see
The Wise have likened thee
To the most living creature that is made?'"
"Living creature?"
"Yes, in the Spring does the grass tarry for any man's help? It comes up
without tool, or seed, or labor. In the garden, the field, the
roadside, it comes, fresh and strong and heavenly green. Its withered
blades have a new life. Likewise certain portions of our lives change or
pass away, but something better for our coming years is given us."
"My dear Jessy, how good are your words. Is there any poetry you do not
know?"
"Men and women who have souls meet each other in good poetry. I have met
many a sweet soul there."
"I must tell you, Jessy, that it is not the _Duchess of Rotherham_ but
the Church of the Disciples that is now troubling me. I dread every
Sabbath Day before me. I feel as if I could not--could not preach."
"Do you think a woman's 'no' should change your life and your life's
work?"
"It might do so."
"It cannot. If there is no place open to a man but a pulpit, it is clear
God means him to preach--whether he wants to or not. I think little of
the men who are feared for the day they never saw. Bode good and you
will get good. That's a fact, Ian.
"Jessy, I seem to have lost everything in one bad year--my love, my
children, my work, my friends. All are changed or gone. I feel poor.
Once I was rich, and knew it not."
"You are not poor, Ian. The poor are those who have never lost anything.
You are not doing badly even now, and you are learning on very easy
terms the grand habit of doing without."
"I am very miserable, Jessy, I know that."
"You are deserving misery badly, or you would hardly punish yourself.
God is giving you blessings on every hand, and you do not even thank Him
for them."
"Jessy Caird!"
"I'm right, quite right. He took the great temptation of a heartless
beautiful woman out of your way. You could have thrown love and honor
and your very soul on that water, and got nothing back--through all the
years of your life--but sorrow and shame. Well, well, it is little
gratitude we give either God or angel for the _escapes_ they help us to
make. How often have we been in the net of some adverse circumstances,
and suddenly and quietly the net is broken and we escape. Then we are as
likely to grumble as to rejoice."
"If it wasn't for the preaching----"
"Ay, it is always 'something' if it is not 'somebody' that is to blame.
Not ourselves, of course! What do you think of making the best of what
you have, Ian? There was a wonderful letter from Donald yesterday. Ask
Marion about it."
"I will take a walk as far as the cathedral. There is a painted window
in the crypt that is always delightful to me."
"A painted window?"
"Yes--representing Christ as a youth reading the Book of the Law."
"You are a queer man, Ian Macrae. Your ideal of Christ has a papistical
leaning."
"Nothing of the kind, Jessy. Nothing!"
"The Roman idea is to represent the Redeemer of the World just a baby in
the Virgin's arms, or he is the victim on the Cross, or the dead God
being prepared for burial. How many paintings do you know representing
Christ as the Lord of Life and Death--the co-equal of the God
Everlasting? Indeed, if you do happen to find a painting of Christ as a
man among men, he is sure to be the least handsome and godlike of all
those surrounding him. And you can find comfort in the figure of a boy
reading the Book of the Law!"
"Do you know the window?"
"I do. The last time I saw it, Donald was with me. He liked it well.
There was a long letter from Donald yesterday."
"I will now dress and take a walk."
"It is raining hard."
"Then I will only go as far as Blackie's, and look over his new books.
That is always interesting."
"Don't go out, Ian. Sit with Marion. She has a letter she wants to read
to you."
"Jessy, I am seeking the Truth. The search impels me--I cannot rest--I
can do nothing else but seek it--not for my life!"
"Do you expect to find it in Blackie's bookshop?"
"I know not where to find it."
"It is lying there--at your right hand."
He glanced down at his right hand, and saw the familiar old Bible of his
college days. The place-keeping ribbon was lying outside its pages, and
he lifted the Book and replaced the ribbon; then, with a feeling of
sorrowful tenderness, laid it, on a shelf of his bookcase. "My father
put it in my hands the morning I went first to St. Andrews," he said
softly, and then turned to Jessy, but she had left the room.
With a strange smile of satisfaction he touched the inner breast pocket
of his long black vest, for in that pocket there lay a letter from
Donald which was all his own. It had come to him by the same mail which
brought Marion's, but some curious Scotch twist in his nature prompted
him to conceal the fact. The root of this secrecy was undoubtedly
selfishness. He did not want anyone else to see, or touch, or handle
it--it was all his own, as long as it lay unspoken of in his breast
wallet. There were things in it he could not bear to discuss--things
that appeared to actually deny all the results he had declared would be
the natural and certain consequences of Donald's disobedience and
irreligious tendencies.
So he kept the letter in his breast and said nothing about it, and he
went to Blackie's bookshop and brought home in his hand a volume by
Mills with which he passed the long evening. Now and then he vouchsafed
a few remarks on passing events, but upon the whole he had reason to
congratulate himself upon his reticence and its success.
Nevertheless, it had been less successful than he imagined, for, after
he had retired with Mr. Mills to the solitude of his study, Marion said,
with a sigh, "He never named Donald, Aunt;" and Mrs. Caird answered
sharply, "I am thinking, Marion, he knows all about Donald. He has had a
letter his own self. The man is far too curious to have kept whist if he
had not known what we were meaning by Donald's good fortune. No doubt
Donald wrote to him. I would hardly believe your father if he said
different."
After this event the gloomy winter of snow and rain and thick fog
settled over the busy city, and people with firm-set lips and gloomy
faces went doggedly about their business and tried not to mind the
weather. But Dr. Macrae was acutely sensible to atmospheric conditions,
and the nearly constant gloom and drizzle was but the outward sign of
his mental and spiritual darkness and doubt. Day followed day in a
monotonous despairing search for what he could not find, and life lost
all its savor and searching all its hope and zest.
Finally his health began to suffer. He found out what it meant to be
nervous and inadequate for duty. He became unreasonable or dourly
despondent, and every change was marked by moods and tempers that
affected the whole household. For the mind has malignant contagious
diseases, as well as the body, and the black silent sulk or the fretful
complaining in the study passed readily into every room of the gloomy
household.
There are doubts that traverse the soul like a flash of lightning,
burning their way through it; there are others that come slowly,
insinuating themselves through a few careless words that somebody said
because they had a clever ring. Doubt came to Ian like a mailed warrior,
and met him, as _Apollyon_ met _Christian_, with defiant words and
straddling all over the way. What if there was no God? he asked
boldly--if blind forces, beyond his comprehension, controlled the world?
If life was only a semblance and mankind dreamers in it? What if the
heavens were empty? If there was no one to answer prayer? If Christ had
never risen? If the Word of God was _not_ the Word of God?
Such questions are only of casual importance to the material man, but to
Ian they were the breath of his nostrils. He lived only to solve them,
and to pluck the Very Truth from the assertions and contradictions in
which it lay buried. By night and by day he was in the thick of this
storm, and was often so weary that he fell into long sleepy stupors. For
great griefs and anxieties have these respites from suffering, and it
was likely this very lethargy which overtook the Disciples in the
sorrowful Garden of Olives. And this spiritual warfare was not a thing
to be decided in a few days, or even weeks. Slowly, as the weary months
went on, it disintegrated the Higher Life, leaving the man acutely
intellectual, but without spiritual hope or comfort. It was mainly by
Mrs. Caird's pleadings and reasonings that he had even been kept at his
post in the Church of the Disciples.
"What do you expect to gain by leaving your work, Ian?" she asked. "If
God should send a word to comfort you, it would doubtless come as it
came to the good men and prophets of old--when they were on the
threshing-floor, or among the flocks, or about their daily duties. You
can at least do as Dr. Scott does--keep faithfully your obligation to
the Presbytery, and, as a matter of professional honesty, preach good
Calvinistic sermons to those who desire them. It might be that while you
were helping and encouraging others the Divine Whisper would reach your
heart. At any rate, it is more likely to come to you in the stress and
duty of life than when you are thinking yourself into a stupor in that
haunted study of yours."
"Haunted!"
"Yes, Ian, haunted by doubts that gather strength by habit--and by
fears, that, like the needle, verge to the pole till they tremble and
tremble into certainty."
And, though Ian had declared that he never could or would preach as a
mere professional duty, he found himself obliged to do so. It was
necessary to have a reason for his sermons, for without a reason he
could neither write nor preach them; and he found in the faithful
fulfillment of his ministerial vows the only substitute for that fervent
zeal which had once touched his lips as with a live coal from the altar.
Indeed, many of the oldest sitters in the Church of the Disciples said
that he had never before preached such powerful and unanswerable
Calvinistic sermons--sermons that "crumpled up sinners spiritually"
until the business obligations of Monday morning restored their
elasticity. And though Mrs. Caird knew well that the passion and fiery
denunciation of these sermons came out of the misery and the
ill-conditioned temperament of the preacher, she approved his
eloquence. With a sort of satisfaction she said to herself, "If these
people like the God John Calvin made, I am glad that Ian shows Him to
them--'predestinating from all eternity, one part of mankind to
everlasting happiness and another to endless misery, and led to make
this distinction by no other motive than his own good pleasure and free
will.'"
To Ian she said, "Your people can make no mistake about the kind of God
they have to meet, and I am glad that lately you have been bringing your
sermons to the counter and the hearthstone. You began your sermon
to-day, as I think Christ must often have done, '_What man among you_.'
Men like to be appealed to, even if they have to admit they are wrong."
"I thought I might be too severe--when I consider it was a sinner
correcting sin. But, Jessy, it is such blind, weary work, preaching what
I do not believe."
"You do believe it. You know well it is the only Scripture for the dour,
proud, self-reliant souls who have accepted it. I wonder, indeed, if
they would respect a God who forgave his enemies, and who thought rich
men would hardly win their way into the kingdom of heaven. As for hell,
it is the necessary place for all who do not think as they do, or who in
any other way offend them."
"_Oh, that I knew where to find him!_" cried Ian, and the passionate
sorrow and entreaty in the lifted eyes and hands filled Mrs. Caird with
a great pity, and she answered softly:
"When you seek for God with all your heart and with all your soul, Ian,
you will find him."
"Do I not seek for Him with all my heart? I do! I do!"
Thus, in constantly soothing and strengthening the unhappy man, the
weary months passed slowly away. And during them Ian was deteriorating
both spiritually and physically, so much so that Mrs. Caird began to
wonder if he ought not to be relieved from the strain of living so
difficult a double life. Was there any necessity which would justify it?
"And he ought to be so happy," she said one day to herself, with a sob
of something between anger and pity, "he ought to be constantly thanking
God about his children, and he can think of nothing but what he himself
wants, and that want a spiritual gift that few obtain. If he cannot
believe Christ and the multitudes who have done so and found it
sufficient, in whom, then, can he believe? There will be no special
dispensation for Ian Macrae, and he need not be looking for it."
This fretful soliloquy took place nearly two years after the coming of
those miserable books of Lord Cramer's into Dr. Macrae's life. He read
others constantly which he hoped would nullify their power, but every
fresh scientific or theological writer had only made his doubts and
perplexities more and more confused and distressing; and it seemed at
last, even to Jessy Caird, that he ought to be released from playing a
part, which, however much good it did to others, was killing in its
personal effects.
It was at this crisis he was walking one lovely Spring morning up
Buchanan Street, and met Major Macrae. They clasped hands with an
understanding smile, and the Major said, "I want an hour's talk with
you, Ian. It is important. Come home with me." So they went together to
Blytheswood Square, and into the little office at the back of the house,
and the Major said:
"Ian, I am ready to recall Lord Cramer, and you will be glad to know
that his estate is now money-making and in good condition; and, as my
application for unlimited parole is not likely to be refused, there is
no reason for delaying my niece's marriage."
"You must have great power with the War Office?"
"I am the power behind the power. Also, it is the desire of the
Government that all noblemen should be on their estates. I have no doubt
Lord Cramer will receive what he desires."
"He owed a large sum of money. Have you performed a miracle?"
"No. I have only made available a much larger sum. Many years ago, while
riding with the late Lord, I noticed a peculiar appearance of the sea
among the little bays that wash the northern part of the estate. I
thought to myself, 'There is an oyster bed there,' but I said nothing,
for the late Lord was only too speculative, and I needed all his money
and all his interest at that time to get the property out of trouble.
When Lord Richard was in the same trouble I remembered my suspicions,
and sent half a dozen old oyster fishers to examine the situation. They
found immense beds of oysters, and now there is an oyster fishery
village there, and just one mile of railroad connects it with the line
to Edinburgh. And, man! there's your market all waiting and ready. There
never was such wonderful luck!"
"But the village and the necessary materials, the boats and cottages,
the railroad and other requirements, must have cost a lot of money."
"To be sure they have. I have put a lot into the development myself. Why
not? It will pay splendidly. Your future son-in-law will not only have a
steady flow of gold from his oyster beds, they will also supply him with
something to do and to look after. I have thought of that. I know it is
good for men to come constantly in contact with facts. It helps them to
keep their moral health. Tell Marion her lover may be home in three
months, and I hope, Ian, you will no longer oppose their marriage."
"Marion can marry when she is twenty-one. Not until."
"You cannot prevent the young from marrying. They will do it. Donald
tells me he is to be married on the fifth of December. I suppose you
know whom to?"
"I know nothing about Donald, excepting that on the steamer to New York
he met a Scotchman called Macbeth, and that somehow they struck up a
friendship, and Donald was going with him to a place called Los Angeles.
He appears to be much older than Donald. I do not understand such
friendships, and, as I did not answer Donald's letter, he did not write
again--and I have heard nothing further."
"I will tell you further, though you are not deserving the news--the why
and wherefore of the friendship between Donald and Mr. Macbeth was,
first of all, that they both played the violin and both loved it, and on
the voyage they turned the smoking-room into a concert room, for the
Captain played likewise, and he brought his violin there when he could.
The second thing was that everyone--men and women--were loving Donald,
and when they reached New York Macbeth would not part with the lad, and
they went together to Los Angeles, and then to his handsome home a few
miles from the city. There he had great vineyards and farms of figs and
lemons, and wonderful peaches and pears, and Donald has taken gladly and
happily to helping him in the making of wines and raisins and the drying
of fruit. The work is all out of doors in a climate like Paradise. In
the evenings they play their violins and sing Scotch songs, and are as
near heaven as they can be on earth."
"You can't sing Scotch songs anywhere but in Scotland. They won't bear
transplanting any better than bell-heather. Fancy bell-heather in a
London park!"
"Scotchmen are singing them all over _this_ world, and, for all I know,
all over _other_ worlds; but we are getting away from our subject, which
was my nephew, Donald Macrae. This Mr. Macbeth has a daughter, a
beautiful girl, not eighteen until the fifth of December. Then he will
give her to Donald with half a million dollars, which Donald will invest
in Macbeth's business, and so become his partner. The girl is lovely as
an angel. I have a picture of her. Do you want to see it?"
"No."
"And she has a beautiful name, and I'll just put it into your memory,
Ian. She is called Mercedes."
"Spanish! Is she a Spaniard?"
"Her mother was a California Spaniard of old and wealthy lineage."
"A Roman Catholic, doubtless."
"Of course. That goes without saying. It does not matter if she loves
God."
"It matters anyway and everyway. It takes all the good out of the
circumstance. The girl was the devil's bait for the poor lad's soul."
"Nonsense, Ian! One creed is as good as another. Creeds, indeed!
Religion has nothing to do with such outside details. God save us! What
kind of a head must a man have who could think so? I can tell you, Ian,
the belief in any creed stands in these days on the edge of a razor."
"Then what have we left?"
"We have Faith, man. Faith goes below creeds, straight to the
impassioned human hopes out of which creeds have grown. Faith in
spiritual matters is just what courage is in material life. _My word,
Ian!_ if you had only Faith, you would see some good in every creed."
"Well, then, all creeds claim to come from the Bible."
"There is no such thing as a creed or a system of Divinity in the
Book--nothing in it but human relations touched by the Spirit of God."
"I am glad, however, to hear of Donald's good fortune."
"It is wonderful. Every good gift of life put into his hand unsought. A
beautiful and wealthy wife, who loved him from the moment they met, and
a father-in-law who treats him already as a dearly beloved son."
"Donald is not his son, however, and never can be. I am forever and ever
Donald Macrae's father."
"A splendid home, a large and prosperous business, and the finest
climate outside of the Kingdom of Heaven. It is like a fairy tale,"
continued the Major enthusiastically.
Ian smiled, and said slowly, as if he could hardly remember the words he
wished to say, "You are right,
'It sounds like stories from the Land of Spirits,
If any one attain the thing he merits,
Or any merit that which he obtains.'
I am glad to have heard such a romance."
"Marion, or Mrs. Caird, could have told it to you, chapter by chapter,
as it was making."
"And with what advices and entreaties!"
"Words only. I never mind words. Ian, you are looking ill. What is the
matter with you? Is it the loss of that woman?"
"The Duchess of Rotherham? No. I never allow myself to think of her. It
is a loss so transcendantly greater that there is not speech to define
the distance. _I have lost God!_" and he looked up with a face of such
desperate sorrow and patience as infected the heart of the older man
with uncontrollable pity.
"O Ian! Ian!" he answered in a low, intense voice, "you cannot lose God,
and, if you could, He cannot lose you."
"My father's brother![1] I have lost God, and the Devil----"
[Footnote 1: Among Highlanders the name of the relationship expresses
more emotion than the baptismal name.]
"Stop now. I disclaim for you and for myself all interest in the devil.
I deny him! I deny him! _Ach!_ I will not talk of him. If there be a
devil, he can talk for himself."
"My God has left me. I know not where to find Him. I watch the day and
the night through for a whisper or a sign from Him. 'As the hart panteth
after the water brook, so panteth my soul for the living God.' To all my
pleading He is deaf and dumb. My heart would break, but He has made it
so hard that sometimes I can only pray for tears, lest I die of my
soul's thirst."
"But this is dreadful, Ian, dreadful! Dear me! Dear me! What can I do?"
"What do you do when, through faults all your own, you have lost the
sense of God's loving presence?"
"I will tell you truly, Ian. I write down all my sins and shortcomings,
and then, kneeling humbly at His feet, I acknowledge them, and ask for
pardon. I wait a moment or two, and then I mark them out with the sign
of the [symbol: cross]. It cancels all, and generally I can feel this.
If I do not feel it, I know something is wrong, and the confession is to
make over again. It seems a childish thing for a man of sixty years old
to rely on, Ian, but it has kept me at His Pierced Feet all my life
long. If I had been a Roman Catholic--as the Macraes once all of them
were--I should have gone to my confessor and had the priest's
absolution; and I suppose it is some ancient feeling after the need and
the comfort of confession. For I have 'confessed' in this way ever since
I was a little lad, and I shall do so as long as I live. I have never
told anyone but you of my simple, solemn rite; but it is a very solemn
thing to me, however simple. Yes, it is. I speak the truth."
"Thank you. It is sacred and secret with me. Tell me now what would you
do if you had to carry the burden Bunyan makes poor Christian carry
through the Slough of Despond every Sabbath. It is my unspeakable burden
to be compelled to preach. While I am preaching to others I am asking my
soul, 'Art thou not thyself become a castaway?' Life is too hard to
bear."
"Yet it was small help or comfort you gave your congregation last
Sabbath."
"I did not see you in Church."
"I was there. It is indeed a very rare circumstance, but I was there,
and I heard you tell your hearers that, bad as this life was, the next
life would be much worse unless they lived a kind of righteousness
impossible to them. Why do people listen to such words? Why do you say
them? How do you dare to represent God as ordaining all things, yet
angry with the actions of the creatures whom He has created to disobey
His orders? And, since a man must sin by the very necessity of his
nature, why is he guilty of his sins? How can people bear such sermons?"
"They do not feel them. No one takes them as for themselves. The
majority give all menaces to their neighbors. A great many do not
believe such doctrine any more than you do."
"Then why do they go and hear it?"
"Because in Glasgow, Uncle, the respectable element compel the scornful
to sit in the seat of the righteous. It is fashionable to go to church,
and the strictest sect is the most fashionable. Anything like
Armenianism or Methodism is democratic, and suitable only for the lower
classes--it is too emotional, and brings religion down to Ohs! and Ahs!
and to feelings that compel expression. There are various other reasons
not worth mentioning."
"And you are permitting this false preaching of a false doctrine to kill
you?"
"My trouble is far greater. Is there a God at all?"
"Now, Ian, such a question as that never darkened any man's life who did
not go out of his way to seek it. Why did you meddle with those cloudy
German philosophies? Like Satan, they are one everlasting _No_! How
could you be influenced by them? I defy any metaphysician to argue me
out of the testimony of my soul and my senses. It is not the 'No!' but
the victorious 'Yes!' that life demands."
Then Ian made some explanations, but without success. The Major laughed
scornfully at the names of his misleaders, and said, "I know all about
them that I want to know. I could not sleep if their books were under my
roof. _Imphm!_" he added with ejaculatory disdain. "You call their
ravings scientific religion and religious philosophy. _Rubbish_,
_rubbish_ is the exact term for them."
"They have been widely read, sir."
"Nonsense! The Scotch mind is far too logical to grasp an existence that
is non-existent; it sees no reality in what never happened, and you
cannot make it believe that 'Being and not Being' are identical facts.
It leaves all such ideas to those who live in that land
'Where Hegel found out, to his profit and fame,
That Something and Nothing were one and the same.'
These two lines of a great critic were all I needed. I laughed heartily,
and sent all the philosophies I had to the Clyde. Sandy, who threw them
into it, said they went straight to the bottom. Ian, you are wandering
in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Are you quite alone? Have you lost
the Great Companion?"
"Yes."
"Then trust to the Man within you. No one can lose his soul who risks it
with his Higher Self. He will lead you to the One mighty to save. And go
and do your daily duty as you see it, and I am led to believe you will
require to begin in the house on Bath Street. _Dod, Man!_ I'm sorry for
the two poor women who have to live with you. You must be a very
uncomfortable, unsocial fellow to eat and to bide with."
"I don't think so, Uncle. When I cannot eat it is kind to keep away from
the table; when I am unable to converse about the trivial things of
this life it is best for me to be silent. A man as full of sorrow as I
am----"
"Fills the whole house with his worry and lamenting. Go home, and eat
with the two women you are treating so badly, and talk with them about
the people and the things that they love and care for. That you _can_
do, and that you _must_ do."
"They love and care for me."
"I'm bound to say you don't deserve it, and that's a fact. Talk to them
of Donald and Lord Cramer, and talk hopefully and pleasantly. They will
be so grateful to you and so kind in return."
"They are always kind to me."
"Well, well! They just show that the grace of God and two women can live
with a man that no one else could live with. I met Marion last week in
the Arcade, and the little girl was miserable. She said you had scarcely
spoken a word for three days. It is not right. Go home and talk to
them."
"How can I talk what seems foolishness to me?"
"Try it. Foolishness has often turned out to be wisdom. There is what
Paul calls 'the foolishness of preaching.' What are you going to do
about that subject?"
"What would you do, Uncle?"
"I would preach the Truth, as I saw it and felt it, or--I would not
preach it at all."
"Jessy Caird thinks that, until Marion is married, everything should
remain as it is. Then! Then I will seek God until I find Him, or die
seeking."
"Just so! I have noticed that few things give a man more satisfaction
than a resolve to do better at some future time. As for Marion's
marriage, I can't see what influence your preaching or not preaching can
have on that circumstance. She will not be married in the Church of the
Disciples, and of course you cannot marry her."
"Marion will be married in my church and I shall marry her. It will be a
great trial, but I shall not shirk it."
"Lord Cramer will insist on being married in St. Mary's Church, and by
the Episcopal ritual. You would not be permitted to perform any service
in St. Mary's unless you had taken Episcopal orders."
"Then we can have a private marriage."
"We can do nothing of the kind. Do you think that I will consent to my
niece being married in a mouse hole? The Bishop is going to marry her,
and it is to be a very grand affair. I have influence to bring to the
ceremony most of our neighboring nobility, and the military friends of
Lord Cramer will be there in force, and their splendid uniforms will
make a fine effect. It is the first wedding I have ever had anything to
do with. You were married in a little Border village, and none of your
kin there;--father and mother and your wife, all gone!" and the Major
looked into the far horizon, as if he must see beyond it, while Ian
stood still and white at his side. Not a word was spoken. For a few
minutes both men surrendered themselves to Memory's divinest anguish.
Then the elder returned to their conversation and said--though in a much
more subdued manner:
"Tell Marion to choose her six bride'smaids and give them beautiful
wedding garments; tell her all I have said, and try to take some
interest in the matter. Do, my dear lad, for no man will ever win Heaven
by making his earthly home a hell. Be sure and tell Marion that Lord
Cramer will be here in three months, and give her a big check to prepare
for his coming."
"I promise to tell Marion. I will be as good as my word."
"Just so. But this is a forgetful world, so I'll remind you of your
promise once more--and there is the girl's little fortune."
"It is ready for her as soon as she is married. I have not touched a
penny of it. It is intact, principal and interest, and, by a little
careful investment, much increased."
"You are a good man--a generous man."
"No, no, Uncle. It was just pride, nothing better. She is _my_ child. I
preferred to take care of her myself--with my own money."
Then they talked over the amounts to be spent on the marriage, on dress,
visitors, the ceremony and traveling expense, and when some decision had
been reached the Major was weary. He sighed heavily, and advised Ian to
go home and try to be of a kinder and more familiar spirit. "And tell
Marion," he said, "Lord Cramer will be in Glasgow in three or four
months, and she must have all her 'braws' ready, for he will not hear
tell of waiting--no, not for a day."