LOVE IS THE FULFILLING OF THE LAW
"Then, as the veil is rent in twain,
From unremembered places where they lay
Dead thoughts, dead words arise and live again,
The clouded eyes can see, the lips can pray.
A purer light dawns on the night of pain,
And, on the morrow, 'tis the Sabbath day."
The love of God, which passeth all understanding.
For a few days Dr. Macrae was seen frequently about the streets of
Glasgow. Some bowed to him, some passed by on the other side. He was
also generally accompanied by Major Macrae or by a certain well-known
lawyer, neither of them men partial to greetings in the market place or
conversations at the street corners. So in a manner he was protected by
his companions and his preoccupation. In his home all knew that he was
going away, but no one named the circumstance to him. It was not an easy
thing to talk to Macrae on subjects he did not wish named.
Indeed, it was four days after his public resignation from the ministry
before the Church of the Disciples ventured to make any movement
signifying their acceptance of his withdrawal. Then a little company of
church officials called on him to exchange some necessary papers and pay
the salary which was due. Thomas Reid's name was among those of the
visitors, and for a moment Ian resolved not to meet them. But it was
Jessy Caird who brought him their request, and she looked so
persuasively at Ian that he answered:
"Very well, Jessy, if you think so, send them in here."
When the little band entered his study his heart melted at the sight of
these old associates of his dead life. They had honored and loved him
for many years, and his miserable state was not their fault. Only Elder
Reid had ever offended, and he had always regretted the trouble and been
glad when it was removed. So Ian looked at them with his heart in his
eyes, and they looked at him and could not utter a word.
For this man was not their long-beloved Minister. He was even outwardly
so changed they could not for a few moments accept him. That very day
Ian had taken off his "blacks" forever. The long black broadcloth coat
and vest and the snow-white band around his throat had been replaced by
a very handsome suit of dark tweed, such as they were themselves
wearing. And this change in his dress--so totally unexpected--moved
them beyond all reason. They looked at him in silence, and their hearts
and eyes were full of unshed tears.
They had seated themselves on the long sofa, and Macrae rose and went to
them: "You have come to bid me farewell," he said, "and I am glad to see
you--you have been brothers to me--it breaks my heart to part with
you--and all you represent--but I must go. I know not where--nor yet
what may befall me, but if I die I shall die seeking the God I have
loved--and--lost."
As he spoke he advanced to the man nearest him and held out his hand,
and it was taken with great apparent love and emotion. An older man bent
his head over it--was it not the kindly, gracious hand that had so often
broken to him the Bread of Life? Thomas Reid was the last of the
company. He looked into Macrae's face with brimming eyes, and when he
took Ian's offered hand a great tear dropped upon the clasping fingers.
Both men saw it, and Macrae said with a sad smile:
"That washes all unkindness out, Elder," and with sobbing words Reid
answered: "It does, sir. It does. O Minister, is it not possible for you
to unsay the words you said last Sabbath Day?"
"No."
"The Lord is merciful to His elect."
"I have denied the Lord, and He has forsaken me."
"He cannot forsake those whom He has chosen. You have lived a good
life."
"I have not. I have run after strange gods. I have looked His Word in
the face and disobeyed it. I have put scientific and philosophical
religion in the place of Christ's religion, and my Bible, once full of
comfort, has nothing to say to me."
"Well, then, sir, you know who is the mediator between God and man."
"Elder, if there is a God, I want to find Him."
"Then seek Him, sir."
"I am seeking Him as those who seek for life and life eternal. Through
the world I will seek Him. To the last breath of this life I will call
upon--perhaps--if there is a God--He may hear me."
Blind with feeling, the men went away so quietly that Mrs. Caird threw
down her work and said impatiently: "There! He has sent them off without
a word. How could he do it? Oh, but Scots are hard-baked men. Even those
proud English would have had a 'God speed' to bless the parting, and
I----"
Then Ian entered, and he said cheerfully: "We had a pleasant parting,
Jessy. I am glad of it. I would have been sorry to have missed it."
"What did you say to them?"
"What I said last Sabbath--that I was going to seek Him whom my soul
loveth, even if I died in the search."
"There is no 'if' in such a search. God is not a 'highly probable' God.
He is a fact. He is nearer to you than breathing, closer than hands and
feet. Even a pagan knew that much, Ian; all that is wanted is to become
conscious of the _nearness of God_, and to seek God with all your heart
and all your soul, and you will find Him. Not perhaps! You _will_ find
Him." And Ian was silent and troubled, and went away.
Then Jessy took her knitting again, and, as she lifted the dropped
stitches, said slowly and sorrowfully: "Ah me! How many half-saved souls
must come back again to learn the lesson they should have learned in
this life. God may well be merciful to sinners, for they know not what
they do."
On Saturday morning he went very quietly away. He had done all that
could be done for the happiness of his family, and the situation had
been tranquilly accepted by them. There was no haste, no irritating
questions or advices, and, as soon as he was out of sight, everyone went
back to the work occupying them. Yet the man they had watched away was
near and dear to them, and full of a sorrow so great they hardly
understood it.
He was bound for the Shetlands, because he believed he would find in
their simple Kirks the height, and depth, and purity of Calvinism. But
he found nothing peculiar to these strong, silent fishers. They had
generally an inflexible faith in their own election, and in the ordering
of their lives by a God who knew "neither variableness nor shadow of
turning." They went fearlessly out on any sea a boat could live in,
because, if it was not their appointed hour of death, "water could not
drown them"; and in all other matters they approved of John Calvin's
plan of sin and retribution, and stuck to it like grim death.
Yet he spent the whole summer in Shetland, and winter was threatening to
shut in the lonely islands when he saw one morning an unusual craft
fighting her way into harbor. She was a strong, handsome boat, a perfect
model of what a fine fishing-smack should be, and she was flying a blue
ribbon from her masthead. Evidently she was one of the mission ships
serving the Deep-Sea Fishermen. Ian was instantly much interested, and
soon fell into conversation with one of her surgeons, who took him on
board and who talked to him all day of this great floating city of the
fishing fleets--a city whose streets were made of tossing ships--a city
without a woman in it--a city whose strange, winding lanes of
habitations ceaselessly wander over the lonely, stormy miles of the
black North Sea--a city even then of more than forty thousand
inhabitants.
"And what of the men in this floating city?" asked Ian.
"They are men indeed! Speaking physically, they are the flower of our
race. They have muscles like steel, their eyes are steady, their feet
sure. The sight of the work they do strikes terror in the heart of one
not used to it. When the call comes for the great net to be hauled they
hurry, half-asleep, on deck, very often to face a roaring icy wind,
lashing sleet or blinding snow. They tramp round the capstan and tug and
strain with dogged persistence until the huge beam of the trawl comes
up. Then, often in the dark, they grope about till they mechanically
coil the nets and begin the gruesome work of sorting and packing fish,
with but fitful gleams of light."
"What a dreadful life!" exclaimed Ian.
"And when the haul is over there is no bath, no change of clothes, no
warmth for the men. They plunge into their reeking dog-hole of a cabin,
and in their sodden clothes sleep until the next call sends them on deck
with their clothes steaming.
"But you see, sir," he continued, "we are beginning to send mission
ships and hospital ships among the fleets, and the men do not have--when
they break or fracture a limb, or in other ways injure themselves--to
be tossed from ship to ship until, perhaps after three or four days,
they come to a place where they can be attended to."
"And are you improving these conditions in every way?" asked Ian.
"Yes, indeed, very rapidly."
"I should like to go with you."
"No. You would soon be wretched. You could not bear to see the smacksmen
at their work. It makes me shiver to think of it. Two days ago I
attended to a man who had shattered three fingers and divided a tendon,
and who was working out his time in pain that would have been unbearable
to me or to you. Our hospital ships, when we have builded plenty of
them, will alter such things. But, sir, if you do not want to die of
heartache, keep out of the Deep-Sea Fishing Fleet. No weakling could
stand it--he could not live a month in it."
Ian, however, could not be discouraged. He remained anxious to see the
fleet fisheries at close quarters, and when a boat, urged by four strong
rowers, came that afternoon for the surgeon, Ian pleaded to accompany
him. "I can help you, Doctor," he said. "I know a little about surgery."
So Ian prevailed, and in a few minutes was with the surgeon on his way
to the injured man. They found him lying in a lump on the deck, under
his head a coil of ropes. The skipper stood at his side, making no
pretense to hide his grief. "It's Adam Bork, Doctor," he said, "the best
sailor in the fleet, _my old mate_. Doctor, do something for him."
The Doctor looked at the man, then at the skipper. "There is not a
hope," he answered. "He is dying now."
The man heard and understood, he looked at the skipper and the skipper
bent to his face. Something was asked, something was promised, and the
two men, with one long farewell look, parted forever.
The Doctor soon found other patients, and he told Ian to watch by the
dying sailor and to give him spoonsful of cold water as long as he could
take them.
"Is that all that can be done?" inquired Ian.
"I will ask him," and he said, "Adam, you are in mortal pain--the pains
of death--shall I give you something to ease them?"
"What can you give me?"
"Laudanum."
"No. I won't go to God drunk."
"You are right, Bork. Good-bye."
About dawning the dying man looked at Ian with such a piteous
entreaty in his pale blue eyes that Ian felt he must, if possible,
grant whatever he desired. Very slowly and distinctly he asked,
"What--do--you--want--me--to--do?" and the answer came, as if from
another world, muffled and far off, but thrilled with such an agonizing
intensity that it struck Ian as if it was a physical blow,
"_Pray for me!_"
Ian knelt down. He tried to pray, but he could not. With almost
superhuman efforts he tried to pray, not for himself, but for this poor
sailor sinking and dying in that dark place, struggling, forsaken,
alone, but he could not. Again the dying man whispered, "_Pray!_" and
his eyes were full of reproach, and the look in them almost broke Ian's
heart. The next moment he was gone.
It was against all Ian's spiritual feelings to pray for the dead, but in
after years he prayed often and sincerely, "for the repose of the soul
of Adam Bork." And why not? God was still in His Universe, Adam was
therefore somewhere in God's presence. It may even be that prayer
prevails there more easily than here. Creeds may say what they like, the
heart of humanity prays for its beloved dead as naturally as it prays
for its beloved absent.
As soon as possible Ian was put on shore, and a week afterward he found
himself in his uncle's home. He had gone first to Bath Street, but the
house there was closed and empty. There were placards in the windows
offering it for sale or rent, and the windows themselves, always so
spotless, were now black with smoke and dust. It was a cold day and had
a sharp promise of winter in its flurries of north wind and little
showers of icy rain with them. All was desolation. Ian's first thoughts
were of an angry, injured nature. The empty house told its own story.
Marion was married, Donald in California, and Jessy had doubtless
returned to her own home in the Border country. "No one cared about him,
etc.," and when people get into this selfish mood they never ask
themselves whether they are reasoning on just or unjust premises.
So Ian went to Blytheswood Square, and found his uncle cheerfully eating
a good dinner. He was delighted at his nephew's return. "Laddie!
Laddie!" he cried joyfully, "you are a sight to cure sore eyes. I was
just thinking of you; when did you touch Glasgow?"
"An hour ago. I went to Bath Street, and found the house empty."
"Just so. All gone to bonnier and better homes. At least they think so,
and we must even bear the same hope. Where have you been?"
"In the Shetlands. I found nothing to help me there. The last week I
spent with the North Sea Fishing Fleet."
"Did you? I am delighted. That is where all my spare cash goes. That is
the reason I do not give Elder Reid a big sum for his Foreign Mission
Fund. I do not like Hindoos and Chinamen, and they have a religion of
their own quite good enough for them. But oh! Ian, those big, brave
fellows, working like giants and suffering beyond ease or help, they are
our kin--leal, brave Scots, who would die for Scotland's right, or
Scotland's faith, any hour it was necessary. It was only yesterday Reid
stopped me on the street and asked me for a subscription for the Chinese
Missions."
"What did you say?"
"I did not heed him. I buttoned up my coat and set my eyes far off to
the river side."
"You did right."
"It stands to reason that Scotchmen ought to look after their own
first."
"I suppose I am quite forgotten. I have had no letters. I do not know
whether anything has happened or not."
"You left no address. You wrote to no one. Yes, to me you sent one
letter, full to its edges with uncertainties. You must remember Marion
is married and greatly taken up with her husband. You never answered
Donald's letter, and the lad, of course, takes it for granted that his
silence was what you wished. Ian, you have tried wandering, and there is
no peace or profit in it. Now, then, if you cannot pray, you can work;
if you can't love God, you can love your fellow creatures. Dr. James
Lindsey was here last week, and I spoke to him about you. When you were
a stripling you were all for surgery, and Dr. James thinks you will yet
make a fine surgeon. You are to live with him, and he was delighted at
the very thought of your company. It is the great opportunity left you,
and I hope you see all its possibilities and will accept them."
Ian was satisfied at the prospect. It was quite true that even in
boyhood he had had a craving for the surgical profession, and the
arrangements made for him by the two elder gentlemen were so homely and
generous, and so full of kind consideration, that he was greatly moved
by their unselfishness. In a few days he went to London, and was met at
the train by Dr. Lindsey. Ian was not ignorant of him. He had seen him
at his uncle's house several times, and he knew that the Major and Dr.
James had been friends since ever they were barefooted laddies, fishing
in the mountain streams together.
Neither was Lindsey ignorant of Ian. He had heard him preach, and he
knew something of the soul struggle through which he was passing.
Indeed, he had his own plans for relieving this spiritual misery, and,
as soon, therefore, as Ian reached London, he found all his days filled
with study and labor. But his surroundings were homelike and pleasant,
and the men were intellectually well matched.
Now, the road downward is easy and rapidly taken, and Ian had managed
to slip from the pinnacle of ministerial fame into silence and
forgetfulness in about one year, but it took him a ten years' climb to
win his way to about the same pitch of public favor in his new vocation.
But of this ten years I shall have little to say. The road upward is a
climb to the very top, and all men find it so, but Ian enjoyed the study
and the practical work of his profession and became extraordinarily
skillful in it.
Their lives were by no means dull or monotonous. Truly the day was given
up to business, but they usually dined together at seven, and afterward
went to the opera or theater, or perhaps to a reception at some house
where they were familiar and honored guests. Or, if they wished to stay
at their own fireside, they were the best of good company for each
other. Nothing that touched man's soul or body came amiss for their
discussion, and if Ian was the more widely and generally educated, Dr.
Lindsey had the keener spiritual instinct, and his soul often ventured
where Ian's followed only with flagging and uncertain wings. In the
summer they made short trips to the Continent or they went to Glasgow,
and, being joined there by the Major, sailed north to the Macrae
country, and then home by Cromarty and Fife.
When Ian had been in London ten years Dr. Lindsey began to talk of a
rather longer holiday than usual. "But first," he added, "here is a
letter from Squire Airey, and he wants either you or me to run up to
Airey Hall to examine his fractured arm. It is all right, I know, but he
is frightened and impatient, and you might go as far as Furness and make
him comfortable."
"I should like to go. I have long wanted to see Windermere, and I could
return that way."
With his patient at Airey Hall Ian stayed two days, and on the third
morning the Squire said: "Doctor, I will give you a good mount, and you
can ride as far as Ambleside. You will go through a lovely land. Leave
the horse at the Salutation Inn in Ambleside when you take the train. I
will send a groom for it."
So Ian took the Squire's offer, for it was a lovely day in August, and
everything seemed to shimmer and glow through a soft golden haze. The
tender, peaceful scenes on all sides induced in him a little mood of
pathos or regret. He could not help it. He had no particular reason for
it; he appeared, indeed, to be in a very enviable condition. He was yet
exceedingly handsome, for it takes a Scotchman fifty years to clothe his
big frame, to round off the corners and soften the large features, and
to make out of a gigantic block of bone and sinew a handsome, finely
modeled man. He had, as far as business went, made himself twice over.
He was the welcome friend and guest of the greatest scientists and
physicians, and his short visits to the most exclusive drawing-rooms
were regarded as great favors. Was he not happy, then? No. Regret, like
a slant shadow, darkened all his sunshine, and the want of personal love
left his life poor and thin on its most vital side.
Nor could he ever forget that solemnly joyful night following the day of
his admission to the ministry. Like the knights of old, he had spent the
midnight hours in the dark, still Kirk of Macrae, and the promises he
then made and the secret, sacred joys of his espousal to the Holy
Office, had been graven on his memory by a pen which no eraser can
touch. Whenever he was long alone this memory shone out in every detail,
and he said once, in a passion of anger at himself: "If I had been a
soldier of the Queen, they would have drummed me out of the ranks. I
would have deserved it--yes, I would!"
This morning the unwelcome memory returned and returned, and, in order
to be rid of it, he began to pity himself for the loneliness of his life
and the misfortune which had attended all his affections.
"There was old Lord Cramer, his apparent kindness was all a plot to get
a little posthumous fame out of my intellect. His one thousand pounds
was a miserable price for the work he proposed for me, and he tried to
pass it off as a kindness. I hate the man, and I hate myself for being
fooled by him. Lady Cramer--nay, I will let her go--another has judged
her now. Donald, whom I idolized, nearly broke my heart, gave a son's
love to a stranger, married a Spaniard and a Roman Catholic, and has not
noticed me for years. I dare say Donald and that Scotchman have had many
a laugh over my leaving the ministry. Jessy went to them, and she could
tell them every circumstance of the event. And, though Marion writes
whiles, and has called her son after me, I never see her unless she
happens to be at Uncle Hector's when I go to see him. And, of course, I
cannot call at Lord Cramer's house, not even to see my daughter. Was any
man ever so undeservedly deserted as I am?"
He was slowly passing through a little village as he troubled his heart
with these thoughts. And, as he looked at the small dark cottages
wanting the usual gardens of flowers, he said to himself, "It is a
mining village; there must be many of them in this locality;" and so was
returning to his unprofitable musing when a tremendous explosion
occurred, and the women from every cottage ran crying to the pit mouth.
Ian also hastened there, and, when he said he was a physician, was taken
down in the first cage. It stopped at an upper gallery and the men ran
backward into the mine. Ian thought he had suddenly awakened from life
and found himself in hell. He heard only cries and groans and shouts,
and the running of men and their frantic calling of names. And he was
spellbound at the first moment by the sight of a boy about nine years
old, lying in a narrow cut of the coal, with a great block of coal
across his body. His father stood beside him, his face full of
unspeakable love and pity, for the mute anguish of the child was
terrible. But, ere he could speak to them, there was a frenzied rush of
men crying, "Fire! Fire! After-damp!" For just one minute they stood at
the cut where the child lay, and called, "For God's sake, Davie, come,
come, come!" and Davie shook his head slightly, and answered,
"_Nay, I'll stay with the lad._"
And when Ian heard these words, they smote him like a sword, and he
cried out: "_I have seen God's love!_ This hour _I have seen God's
love_--like as a father pitieth his children--even unto death--so God
pities and loves. My God, love me! Teach me how to love! I am thy
faithless son, Ian; forgive me and love me!"
He was in an ecstasy, and, even as he prayed, a still, small voice ran,
like a swift arrow of flame, through all the black galleries of the
mine--a voice like the noise of many waters, but sweet as the music of
heaven, and it spoke but one word:
"_Ian!_"
Through all that earthly hell, filled with death and horror of
suffering, above the crying of the men, above the screams of the
wounded, the voices of fear and agony, this wonderful voice passed
along, swift as the lightning, yet full of the divinest melody.
These events so marvelous to Ian had not occupied more than a moment or
two of time. Then there was another rush of men with the assurance that
it would be the last. They swept Ian with them, but Davie, still
standing by his child, just shook his head and repeated his decision,
"_Nay, I'll stay with the lad_"; and the crowd, with fire behind them,
struggled to the cage and were drawn up to the sunshine.
At the pit mouth Ian met the rescue company of the pit and the
physicians, and he untied his horse and rode away into the woods and
hills. He was weeping unconsciously, washing every word he uttered with
tears of repentance and love.
"Oh, it is wonderful!" he cried. "_Wonderful! Wonderful!_ Out of all the
millions of men in this world, _God knew my name_. He knew _where I
was_. He _called me by my name_. Oh, miracle of love!"
All the way to Ambleside he rode slowly. He was in a transport of love
and joy--had he not been veritably taken by God's love "out of hell"? He
was thrilled with wonder, and he would make no haste. He bent his soul
to the heavenly influences which had made the last few hours forever
memorable. So his prayers grew sweeter and calmer. They had in them the
voices of the night wind, the awe of the stars, and the rustle of unseen
wings. And, just as he was entering Ambleside, his Bible took part in
his happiness and whispered to his heart a verse he had read hundreds of
times, but which at this hour seemed to have been written specially for
him.
"Fear thou not. I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by thy name.
Thou art mine."--Isaiah 43:1.
He knew then what he was to do.