A DREAM
For while all things were in quiet silence and the night was in
the midst of her swift course.... Then suddenly visions of
horrible dreams troubled them sore, and terrors came upon them
unlooked for.--Wisdom of Solomon, 18: 14: 17.
Dreams are rudiments of the great state to come.
For nearly two weeks after the Minister's talk with his uncle something
of the old cheerfulness and peace returned to the house on Bath Street.
To Marion her father was exceedingly kind and generous, and the girl was
radiantly happy in his love and in the many beautiful gifts by which he
proved it. But "the good and the not so good," which is, to some extent,
the inheritance of us all, gave him no rest, though for some days he was
able partially to control the strife. He had been too intense a believer
to stand still and say nothing about his doubts; and when a Scotchman
has cast off Calvin, and been unable to accept Kant, he is not an
agreeable man in domestic life. He was morbid, but he was not insincere,
and he was really desperate concerning the salvation of his own soul.
So the busy gladness of Mrs. Caird about the wedding preparations and
the joyous voice and radiant face of Marion, as the stream of love was
bearing her gently to the Happy Isles, rasped and irritated him. He was
beginning to feel that he had done enough--to wonder if he could not go
away until the marriage was an accomplished fact. Everything about it,
as far as he was concerned, had undergone the earth and been touched by
disappointment; and nothing had brought him back the calm peace, the
sweet content, the abiding strength that his old trust in the God of His
Fathers had always given. The cynicism of lost faith infected his
nature. He was even less courteous to all persons than he had ever been
before. The man was deteriorating on every side.
"Oh, the regrets! the struggles and the failings!
Oh, the days desolate! the wasted years!"
To such mournful refrains he walked, hour after hour, the crowded
streets and the narrow spaces of his own rooms; for he felt, even as St.
Paul did, that, if all this great scheme of Christianity were not true,
then its preachers were of all men most miserable. Generally speaking,
poor Burns' prayer that we might see ourselves as others see us is
surely an injudicious one, but if the Minister could have been favored
with one day's observation of Ian Macrae, as he really appeared to his
family, it might at least have given him food for reflection.
After a day of great depression, partly due to the marriage preparations
and gloomy atmospheric conditions, but mainly, no doubt, to his wretched
spiritual state, he went one evening to a session at the Church of the
Disciples. He wondered at himself for going and his elders and deacons
wondered at his presence. He was lost in thought, took no interest in
the financial report of the treasurer, and left the meeting before it
closed.
"The Minister was not heeding whether the Church was in good financial
standing or not," said Deacon Crawford, "and I never saw such a look on
any man's face. It comes back, and back, into my mind."
"Ay," answered another deacon, "and did you notice his brows? They were
sorely vexed and troubled. And the eyes that had to live under them!
They gave you a heartache if he but cast them on you."
"We'll be having a great sermon come the Sabbath Day, no doubt," said
the leading Elder; "and, the finances being in such good shape, what
think you if we give the Minister's daughter a handsome bridal gift?"
"It isn't an ordinary thing to do, Elder."
"The Minister is getting a very good salary."
"He is an uncommonly proud man, too."
"And his daughter is marrying a lord."
"Well," answered the proposer of the gift, "there's plenty of time to
think the matter over," and all readily agreed to this wise delay.
Though the Minister had left the session early, it was late when he
reached home, weary and hungry, and glad of Mrs. Caird's kind words and
plate of cold beef and bread.
"Where on earth have you been, Ian?" she asked. "Do you know it is past
eleven?"
"I have been going up and down and to and fro in the city, watching the
unceasing march of the armies of labor. The crowd never rested. When the
day workers stopped the night workers began--weary, joyless men. It was
awful, Jessy."
"I know," said Mrs. Caird, "it is
'All Life moving to one measure,
Daily bread! Daily bread!
Bread of Life, and bread of Labor,
Bread of bitterness and sorrow,
Hand to mouth, and no to-morrow.'
Good night, Ian. Go to sleep as soon as you can."
How soon he kept this promise he never could remember; he only knew that
when he awakened he was drenched with the sweat of terror and trembling
from head to feet. "Who am I? Where am I?" he asked, as he fumbled with
the Venetian blind until it somehow went up and let in the early
dawning. Then he noticed the dripping condition of his night clothing,
and he hurried to his bed and cried out in a low, shocked voice, "_The
sheets are wet! The pillow is wet!_ What can it mean? What has happened?
_Oh, I remember!_" And he covered his face with his hands and his very
soul shuddered within him.
Then his wet clothing shocked and frightened him, and he began to remove
it with palpitating haste, muttering fearfully as he redressed himself:
"How I must have suffered! Great God, the physical melts away at the
touch of the Spiritual! Oh, I wish Jessy would come! Why is she so late?
When I do not want her she is here half an hour before this time." The
next moment she tapped at his door and called,
"Ian."
"Oh, come in, Jessy. Come in! I want you! I want you!"
"Breakfast is waiting."
"Let it wait. Come in. I want you to tell me the truth, the plain, sure
truth about what I am going to ask you."
"What is it, Ian?"
"Jessy, did you ever know me to dream?"
"Never. You have always declared that you could not understand what
Marion and I meant by dreaming."
"Well, I had a dream this morning, and, though it seemed very short, I
felt when I awoke from it as if I had been in hell all the night long."
"What did you dream?"
"I was in the vestry of the Church of the Disciples, putting on my
vestments. I knew that the church was crowded, and I looked at myself
and was proud of my appearance. Then I was walking up the aisle very
slowly. Step by step I mounted the pulpit stairs, and stood facing the
largest congregation I had ever seen. And the light was just like the
light when there is an eclipse of the sun--an unearthly, solemn
obscurity, frightful and mysterious. I stood in my place and surveyed
the congregation. It filled the church, but the furthest points of
distance appeared to be nearly in the dark. I could see forms and
movements there, but nothing distinct. I looked at this gathering for a
moment, and then laid my hand upon the Bible, and, with my eyes still
upon the people, I opened it--Jessy!"
"O man! Speak!"
"There was nothing there."
"Nothing there! What do you mean?"
"Every page was blank--only white paper--not a word of any kind----"
"Ian Macrae!"
"I looked for my text. It was gone. I turned the pages with trembling
hands, but neither in the Old nor the New Testament was there a word.
And I cried out in my anguish, and looked at the wordless Bible till I
felt as if body and soul were parting. God, how I suffered! Earth has no
suffering to compare with it."
"Then, Ian?"
"Then I looked up at the congregation, and was going to tell them the
Bible had faded away, but I saw the people were a moving dark mass, in a
rapidly vanishing light; and I tried to find the pulpit stairs, but
could not, for I was in black darkness. And I was not alone; to the
right and the left there were movements and whispers and a sense of
_Presence_ about me. Powers unutterable and unseen that must have come
out of inevitable hell. The whole earth appeared to be awake and aware,
and _the Name_, _the Name_ I wanted to call upon I could not remember.
The effort to do so was a tasting of death."
He covered his face and was silent, and Mrs. Caird took his cold hand
and said softly, "O Lord, Thou Lover of souls! Thou sparest all, for
they are Thine."
"At last _the Name_ came into my heart, Jessy, and though I but
whispered the Word, its power filled the whole place, and the Evil Ones
were overcome--not with strength nor force of celestial arms, but with
that _One Word_ they were driven away; and I awakened and it was just
daylight, and I was so wet with the sweat of terror that I might have
been in the Clyde all night. Was this a dream, Jessy?"
"Yes."
"What does it mean?"
"You know best. A God-sent dream brings its meaning with it. It is not a
dream unless it does so. You know, Ian. Why ask me?"
"Yes, I know."
About this experience Mrs. Caird would not converse, for she was not
willing to talk away the influence of Ian's spiritual visitation. She
was quite sure that he understood the message sent him, and equally sure
that he would implicitly obey it. So she left him alone, though she
heard him destroying papers all day long. The next day being Saturday,
he was very quiet, and she told herself he was preparing his sermon, and
then with a trembling heart she began to speculate as to its burden. She
feared that in some way his dream would come into relation or comment,
and she could not bear the idea of such a public confidence.
She was still more uneasy when on Sunday morning he said in his most
positive manner, "Jessy, I wish you and Marion to remain at home to-day.
A little later you will understand my desire."
"As you wish, Ian. We shall both be glad of a quiet rest day. I hope you
know what you are going to do, Ian. Our life is a spectacle--a tragedy
to both men and angels--bad angels as well as good ones. Don't forget
that, Ian."
"I shall not forget, and I know what I am going to do."
She looked at him anxiously, but had never seen him more decided and
purposeful. He was also dressed with extreme care, and, though in
ecclesiastical costume, was so singularly like his uncle that Mrs. Caird
involuntarily thought, "How soldierly he carries himself! What a fighter
he would have been! But he is some way quite different--not like the old
Ian at all."
Yes, he was different, for on the soul's shoreless ocean the tides only
heave and swell when they are penetrated by the Powers of the World to
Come. And Dr. Macrae was still under the emotions of his first
experience of that kind. He was prescient and restless. For, though the
outward man appeared the same, the archway inside was uplifted and
widened, and Dr. Macrae had risen to its requirements. He was ready to
fight for his soul. Yes, with his life in his hand, to fight for its
salvation. What would it profit him if he gained the whole world and
lost his soul?
Frequently he assured himself that he did not now regard the Bible as
divinely inspired, yet he was constantly deciding this or that question
by its decrees. So quite naturally he followed this tremendous inquiry
of Christ's by those two passionate invocations of David, "Cast me not
away from Thy Presence. Take not Thy Holy Spirit from me." To be cast
out of God's Presence. To be sent into the Outer Darkness, full of the
Evil Ones! "O Jessy!" he cried, "such a doom would turn a living man
into clay!"
It was of this awful possibility he was thinking as he walked to the
Church of the Disciples. Two or three of the deacons were standing in
the vestibule, and they looked at him and then at each other with a
pleased expression.
"We rejoice to see you, sir, looking so well," said one. "The church is
full, sir, and, if our clock is correct, there is but five minutes to
service time."
He had five minutes yet, in the which he could draw back or postpone his
intention--or--or--then his dream came to his remembrance, and he put
all hesitation out of the question. With a thoughtful gravity he walked
down the aisle, ascended the pulpit stairs, and stood in his place
before the people. And they watched him with a sigh of content and
pleasure. They had often seen in his eyes that far-away gaze of one who
looks past the visible and sees time and eternity as the old prophets
saw them.
They expected from this sign a sermon which would take them for an hour
"to the Land which is very far off."
He stood silently facing his congregation, for even at this last minute
there came to his soul a doubtful whisper, "The position is yet yours.
You can delay any explanation a week--or even two. You had better do
so." He trembled under the strain of this instant decision. But the
whole congregation were rustling their hymn books and the precentor was
taking his desk. Then in a dear, vibrant voice he said:
"We shall sing no hymn this morning. We shall make no prayer. I am here
to bid you farewell. You will see my face no more."
There was an indescribable movement throughout the building, but nothing
articulate, and he quietly continued: "I have ceased to believe in the
divinity and the inspiration of the Bible. It is not any longer to me
the Word of God. It has nothing to say to me, either of Time or
Eternity. Its pages are blank. I might have gone away from you without
any explanation. I was tempted to do so, but we have been twenty years
together, and I desired to give you my last words." There was no
response from the cold, voiceless crowd, but he felt their antagonism to
be more palpable than that of either scornful looks or reproachful
words. With eloquent anger he described the cynical complaisance with
which the very existence of God and the inspiration of the Bible were
now challenged and discussed. "There is boundless danger in all such
discussions," he cried. "As long as we are loving and simple-minded we
judge the Bible by the heart and not by the intellect. And of such are
the Kingdom of Heaven." Then, as he spoke, the _Word_ became _Flesh_ and
prevailed like a message from another world. Many were the hard words he
gave them, and, if he had never before spoken the whole truth, he did so
at this last hour--not of any settled purpose--but because it was the
last hour, and he wanted them to see through his sight "the dead, small
and great, standing before God for the judgment to come."
At this point the church was no longer either cold or voiceless, it felt
rather as if it were on fire. The people trembled and prayed and wept as
he spoke, and Ian Macrae was a man they had never before seen. His tall,
grave figure radiated a kind of awe, his voice rang out like a command.
The keen spiritual life within lit up his pale, striking face, and in
his eyes there was a strange glory--they shone like windows in a setting
sun.
The intensity of feeling had been so great that there was in about
fifteen minutes an inevitable pause. Then he looked round, and
continued:
"Listen to me a few moments, while I illustrate what I have said by my
own experience. A few months ago the Bible lay in every fold of my
consciousness. Now it has nothing to say to me, and it is impossible to
describe the loneliness and grief that fills my empty heart. For the God
of my Bible has left me. All my life I had trusted to whatever God said
in His Word. God had said it, and I knew that God would keep His Word.
Then I was tempted by the devil--no, by the gift of one thousand pounds,
to examine my Father's Word--to prove, and to test, and to try it, by
the suppositions and ideas of some small German, French, English--and
Scotch, so-called philosophers. And I was too small for the intellectual
dragon I went out to slay. All of them wounded me in some way, and my
God left me. I deserved it. I have lost my place among the sons of God.
With my own hand I crossed out my name from the list of those who serve
His altar. In the honored halls of St. Andrews they will think it kind
to forget Ian Macrae.
"I am now bidding farewell--bidding farewell forever--to you, and not
only to you, but to all the innocent pleasures and happy labors of the
past. For me there is no birthday of Christ--no farewell supper in the
upper chamber--no flowery Easter morning. I dare not even think of that
sacred ghost story in the garden, for, if the stone was not rolled away
from the grave of Christ, it lies on every grave that has been dug since
the creation. And if there is no resurrection of the body--there is no
Life Eternal--_there is no God_!"
His voice had sunk at the last few words, but it was poignantly audible.
A long, shuddering wail filled the church, and the women's cries and the
men's mutterings and movements were sharply distinct. Then the Senior
Elder looked expressively at the precentor, and he instantly raised the
hymn known to every church-going Scot:
"O God of Bethel, by whose hand
Thy people still are fed,
Who through this weary wilderness
Hast all our fathers led."
The first line was lifted heartily by the congregation; they evidently
felt it to be a proclamation of their Faith, but the melody quickly
began to scatter and cease, and before the first four lines were sung it
had practically ceased. Everyone, with movements of shock or sorrow, was
watching the Minister, who was slowly removing from his shoulders the
vestment of his office. In a few moments he had laid it slowly and
carefully over the front of the pulpit. Then he turned to the stairs,
and he remembered his dream and was afraid of them. What if there should
be only _one_ step to the floor below? The descent seemed steep and
dark. He kept his hand on the railing of the balusters, and the cries of
hysterical women and movements and mutterings of angry men filled his
ears. It was growing dark. He felt that he was losing consciousness.
Then a large, strong hand was stretched up to him, and, grasping it
gratefully, he reached the ground in safety. And when he looked into his
helper's face he said with wonder, "Uncle! You?"
[Illustration: "The descent seemed steep and dark"]
"Just me, laddie. Keep your heart and head up. Come what will, you've
done what's right. Put your arm through mine. We will take this walk
together."
So arm in arm down the long aisle they went, and the Major said
afterward, "It was a worse walk than any down a red lane on a
battlefield." The women mostly covered their faces and wept. Many of the
men were standing up, angry and offensive in word and manner, but sure
that their attitude was well pleasing to God and to the Kirk He loved.
The Major's carriage was standing at the curbstone, and, without delay,
yet also without hurry, they took it and went together to Dr. Macrae's
home. Being Sunday morning, the streets were nearly empty, and the
drive, as became the day, was slow and silent. But Ian's hand was
clasped in his uncle's hand, and words were not necessary.
Mrs. Caird was at the open door to meet them. "I heard the clatter of
the Major's horses; they clatter louder than any other in Glasgow--but
what are you here for? Who's preaching this morning? Ian, are you ill?
Major, what is it?"
"Wait a while, my dear lady. Ian wishes to be alone, and I am going to
take lunch with you. Then I will tell you all that Ian has done. I am
going to give to-morrow to Ian and his affairs, so he will not require
to worry himself either about the Kirk or the market place."
"I wish I had been present," answered Mrs. Caird. "I wish I had! I think
I also would have had a few words to say--or at least a few questions to
ask."
"I cannot understand Ian taking such a noticeable farewell. It would
have been more like him to have said nothing to anyone, just resigned
without reason or right about it. But doubtless he had a reason."
"He had. Two nights ago he had a dream."
"Never! Ian never dreams."
"He dreamt last Friday morning just at or before the streak of dawn.
Listen!"
Then in an awed and whispering voice she related Ian's dream. The Major,
who was naturally a psychic man and a great dreamer, listened with
intense interest, but did not at once make any comment. After a short
reflection, however, he answered with an air of complacent gratitude:
"God's dealings with the Macraes have ever been close and personal.
Plenty of preachers are no doubt preaching this day what they do not
believe, but they have not been shown and warned like Ian. I think his
dream was a great honor and favor."
"You Macraes have a wonderful way of appropriating God. I dare say a
great many ministers have been warned and advised as well as Ian."
"No, Jessy, they have not. If they had been warned as Ian was warned,
they would have done exactly as Ian has done. Dreams are strange things.
You cannot help noticing them--you cannot help being led by them. I
wonder why."
"Because dreams belong to the Spiritual World, and humanity has an
instinctive belief in this Spiritual World. You do not have to teach men
and women to dream. A true dreamer has the gift in childhood as
perfectly as in old age. There is no age, no race, no class, no
circumstances free from dreams. God is everywhere and knows everything,
and He speaks to His children in dreams and by the oracles that lurk in
darkness."
"In my own life, Mrs. Caird, they have often read the future. How do
they do it?"
"How can we tell what subtle lines are between Spirit and Spirit? A
century ago nobody knew how messages could be sent through the air--sent
all over the world. We had not then discovered the medium nor the
method. In another century--or less--we may discover the medium and
method of communication between this world and the other."
"Do you think some houses are more easily visited by dreams than
others?"
"Yes, and for many reasons, but they cannot be prevented from entering
any place to which they are sent. I was not a week at Cramer before I
was aware
'of Dreams upon the wall,
And visions passing up the shadowy stair and through the vacant
hall.'"
"I am glad you told me of Ian's dream. I understand him better now."
"And like him better?"
"Yes, but I have always loved Ian above all others."
"Then be patient with him now. It is hard for mortals to live when their
moments are filled with eternity."