AFTERWARD
"Christ is God's realized idea of perfected humanity."
"Think, when our Soul understands
The Great Word which makes all things new,
When earth breaks up and heaven expands,
How will the change strike me and you
In the house not made with hands?"
"Pouring Heaven into this shut House of Life!"
According to a literary scripture, my story should end here. I have
satisfied my proposition--the man who lost God has found Him; therefore,
to say more is to pass my climax and break a very prominent canon of
criticism. But I am sure that there are many who have followed the
struggle of Ian Macrae into the Second Birth who will desire to know
what the New Man did with his New Life; and I think it better to grant a
good wish than to keep a literary law.
In that blessed night, full of the presence of God, which Ian had spent
on the hills surrounding Ambleside, he had looked steadily and hopefully
into the future, and clearly understood what he must do. So he never
thought of returning to London, but early in the morning took a train to
Glasgow. In the place where he had doubted and denied God he must show
Him forth publicly as the Father and Lover of Souls, the God gracious
and long-suffering, full of mercy and truth. He was anxiously longing to
begin this work; he grudged the hours in which he had to be silent, and
was full of a buoyant joyfulness so sincere and so radiant that people
looked into his face and involuntarily smiled.
He reached Glasgow before the noon hour, and as soon as he was inside
his uncle's house he called him in resounding tones, full of eager,
wistful excitement. And the Major, who was in his private office,
recognized the voice and went hastily to meet his nephew.
"Why, Ian, Ian! What is the matter?" he cried. "Whatever has come to
you? You look--you speak like a different man!"
"Uncle! _Brother of my father!_ I have found what I lost! I have found
Him whom my soul loveth!" Then they sat down, and Ian related the
wonderful story of the last wonderful twenty-four hours; and the old man
listened with a joy past utterance. His face radiated wonder and love,
his blue eyes shone through reverential tears, unconsciously his head
and hands were uplifted, and his lips whispered the prayer of
thanksgiving that was in his heart.
"It is a heavenly story, Ian," he said, "and the greatest wonder is
this--though numberless souls have such experiences, every one has its
own solemnly distinct personality. And their number never makes them
common. They are always wonderful. They are never doubted, and they
never fail. But, Ian, no one that has been 'called by name' can ever
forget the voice that called him; it haunts and hallows life
forevermore. Now, then, what are you going to do?"
"I am going to preach the Love of God!--the patient, everlasting Love of
God! O Uncle, can I ever forget the love in that father's face as he
stood waiting to die with his child? I was not told, I did not read of
it, I _saw_ the love of God in that father's face, and knew in that
moment how God so loved the world that He gave His Son for its
salvation. Now, through all the days of my life, I am going to preach
the Love of God."
"That is right. You shall have a church here--in Glasgow."
"Somewhere among the teeming habitations of the poor."
"No. The rich need the gospel you have to preach more than the poor do.
We will build among the terraced crescents, where the rich dwell. And
we will build of good gray granite, and finish it with the best of
everything--and the pulpit will be yours."
"Dear Uncle, no pulpit! I could not go into one again. I have two
memories of a pulpit. I wish to forget them. But there is something we
have not spoken of that I desire greatly to have in connection with my
church. I mean a dispensary. Christ healed the body as well as the soul;
for it is not a soul, nor is it a body we wish to train upward--it is a
_Man_, and we ought not to divide them."
So they talked over the dispensary with perfect accord, all the time the
table was being laid for dinner and the meal eaten. Nothing interfered
with this interest. It was quite a fresh one to the Major, and he was
greatly delighted with the idea. Indeed, it was the old soldier who
first proposed a small surgery connected with the dispensary. "When I
was at the wars," he said, "I saw many a poor man suffering for want of
the knife and a bandage. We must have a little surgery, Ian." And Ian
joyfully acceded to the proposition.
"It will be a big increase in your work, Ian, but----"
"O Uncle, I am here to work--not to study and dream. I must work, I must
preach; I must help the sick and sorrowful. How soon can the church be
ready?"
"I do not know exactly, but we will build the surgery and dispensary as
soon as we have got the proper location. They will give you many good
opportunities while the church is building. And I hope you have not
forgotten duties kin and kindred to yourself. They cannot be overlooked,
Ian."
"I will overlook none of them, Uncle. I have been a great sinner in this
respect."
"For instance, Marion has never weaned herself from you. She talks of
you constantly when she comes here, and we have had some tearful hours
about your silence and neglect."
"I will atone for them as soon as may be. I have often been sorry that I
did not stay and see her marriage."
"It was a grand affair. Nothing like it was ever seen in Glasgow before
or since. There were the Bishop and two clergymen to perform the
ceremony and a notable company to see that it was properly done. Among
this company were three officers from the Household troop, and, if I had
the words, I would tell you about their splendid uniforms and stars and
ribbons of honor. And there was Lochiel, in full Highland costume,
looking more like some old god than a man--and McAllister and McLeod and
Moray, and half a dozen more in all their varieties of kilts and plaids
and philabegs; velvet vests and gold buttons, and eagle feathers in
their Glengary caps. They were a splendid and picturesque background for
the lovely bride, clothed in white from head to foot and looking like an
angel. McAllister had sent a basket of white heather for bridal
bouquets, and every Highlander there wore a spray of it in his vest or
cap. I had a stem or two at my own breast--and Marion's veil was crowned
with a wreath of the lovely flowers."
"After the marriage, where did they go?"
"First of all, they came here, to my house--and we had a bridal
breakfast that none will forget. Lord Glasgow toasted the bride, and the
Provost of the City made answer for her. His speech was well enough, but
a little o'er long--considering the occasion."
"And then?"
"They went to all the capital cities of Europe. It was a wonderful
honeymoon trip. They might have been royalties themselves, they were
that nobly entertained. Well, well! Marion Macrae was a bonnie bride,
and she is far bonnier and better now than she was then--the best of
mothers, the best of wives, a noble woman every way. She has a son
called 'Ian,' after you, and two little girls who wear the names of
Agnes and Jessy--you know----"
"Yes--I know. How could I ever forget?"
"And there is poor Donald. You are not to slight Donald. You will write
to him, Ian?"
"I will _go_ to him. I can never be quite satisfied until I have seen
Donald. I was cruel and selfish then, but I loved him. I love him now
better than ever. He sits in the center of my heart. I must go as soon
as may be to California."
"You are right. We will buy our land and make our estimates, and set the
men to work. Then you can go and kiss your banished son."
"I am afraid I cannot bring him home again."
"Would you think of suchlike foolishness? God gave him his wife and his
portion out there. But I will tell you what you can do--you can bring
home Mrs. Caird. In her last letter to Marion she said she was weary of
golden oranges and perpetual sunshine; and she hoped God would let her
come hame to her ain countrie before she died. She was fairly sick for
the gray skies and green braes of Scotland, and, as for the rain, it was
only gloom upon gleam, and gleam upon gloom--very comfortable weather
upon the whole. I was sorry for the pleasant little woman. You can bring
her back. See that you do so. For I am counting on you living with me,
Ian. Why should we part? I am growing old, and need your love and
company; and I want to be your right hand in the Godlike work before
you."
"My dear Uncle, you shall have all your will. I desire nothing better
than to share your love and your home, and have your constant counsel
and help."
"Then bring back Mrs. Caird. She will send away all the wasteful, lazy,
dirty men bodies round the house, and hire in their place tidy, busy
young lasses. Then, Ian, I can have a dream of a home for my old age. No
matter what her 'will and want,' give her everything she asks--only
bring her back."
"I will do so, Uncle--if possible."
"Possible or not--bring her back."
There was no pause in their conversation until the long summer twilight
filled the quiet square. Then they suddenly remembered Doctor James
Lindsey and the London duties that might be hard to relinquish, and thus
delay the work which they so eagerly willed to do. So Ian spent the
evening in writing to his friend, while the Major lost himself the while
in financial calculations about the great project.
Ian had not one doubt of his friend's sympathy. "I know James Lindsey,
Uncle," he said with an air of happy confidence; "he will count God's
claim long before his own. And he will see at once that I have been
unconsciously preparing myself for the great work we are planning for
eleven years; and, though I have been led by a way I knew not, every
step has been taken right."
Then the Major looked into his happy face and said solemnly: "Ian, if
you _saw_ the love of God shining on that father's face in the awful
pit, I see it just as plainly on your countenance. It has absolutely
changed it. Your voice is also different, and your words go singing
through my soul. You are a new man. You are a happy man, and I used to
think that, of all men, you were the most miserable."
"Uncle, I might well be miserable. The phantoms that peopled
my nights must have destroyed life if God had not forbidden
it--remorse that came too late--cries uttered to inexorable
silence--doubt--anguish--prostration worse than death. I was afraid to
look back, equally afraid to look forward; and then last night changed
all in the twinkling of an eye. I fell at the feet of the Father of
Spirits with a joy past utterance. Troubles of all kinds grew lighter
than a grasshopper. I had a rest unspeakable until rapture followed
rest, and I cried out, 'Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is
none upon earth that I desire beside Thee!'" Then the two men
involuntarily clasped hands. They had no words fit for that moment.
Words would have been a hindrance, not a help.
The next morning Ian was crossing Exchange Place when he saw a man
approaching who gave him a thrill of recollection. He hesitated for a
moment, and then went quickly forward. His hand was outstretched and his
face smiling.
"Richard!" he cried. "I am glad to see you. I am glad to have this
opportunity of saying I did you wrong. I was very unkind both to you and
to Marion. I am sincerely sorry for the past, will you forgive it now?"
And Lord Cramer clasped the hand offered and answered with hearty
gladness: "I cannot forgive it now, sir. I forgave it many years ago.
Marion stands between us. We are the best of friends." Then they walked
together cheerfully to a hotel and ordered a good lunch, for both
English and Scotchmen cannot celebrate any event--whether it concern the
heart or the purse--without offering a meat and drink sacrifice for the
occasion. During the meal Ian sent loving words to Marion, and promised
to be with her on the following day, and thus love and good-will took
the place forever of wronged and slighted affection. Then he saw his
eldest grandchild, a beautiful boy of ten years old, Ian, the future
Lord of Cramer, and his heart went out to the lovable child, as it did
also to the bright, seven-year-old Agnes and the pretty baby, Jessy.
Three days he spent at Cramer Hall, and saw all the improvements made
there--the additions to the Hall, the fine condition of the park and
gardens, and the famous and highly profitable oyster beds. So his heart
was filled with that mortal love for which it had been aching and
perishing.
When he returned to Glasgow he found Dr. Lindsey with his uncle. He had
come in answer to Ian's letter, and he was enthusiastic concerning all
Ian's intentions and eager to assist in realizing them. "You know, Ian,"
he said, "we were preparing for a long holiday together when you started
for Furness and Ambleside. This is 'the long journey' for which we were
unconsciously preparing. I called at the little mining village as I came
here----"
"And that father and his boy?" interrupted the Major.
"They died together in the pit. They were laid in one wide grave, and
rich and poor, from far and near, came to honor that perfect image of
the Divine love. I called on his widow. She was still weeping for 'her
man and her lile lad.' He was her first-born, but she has four other
children, the youngest a few weeks old. She is very poor. Her neighbors
are feeding her."
"But that must stop," cried Ian. "It is my duty and my pleasure. How can
I ever pay the debt? I will see to it at once. It is a sin that I have
not already done so."
"You are right, Ian," answered the Doctor; "and we may recall now how
wonderfully you have been led, and realize that there is a kind of
predestination in our life. It was necessary for you to spend ten years
in the House of Pain and Suffering and Death; necessary for you to know
how to cure the sick and to heal the wounded, in order to prepare you to
receive the sacred mystery in that horrible pit, and make you fit for
the work you have yet to do. Do you remember how impossible we found it,
night after night, to satisfy ourselves as to the course and country our
holiday should take? And all the time the journey was being arranged for
us. Surely the steps of a good man are ordered of the Lord."
"'_Steps_,'" said the Major. "We may be glad of that word, for it is
easy for a man to take just one step to ruin or to death."
The journey to America being determined, Dr. Lindsey went back to London
to prepare his business for an absence of three months. Ian was glad of
his companionship, and promised to meet him in Liverpool on the 25th of
July. There they would take together passage for New York. This plan was
fully carried out, but of the voyage, the journeyings and their life in
California there is no necessity to write. Possibly most of my readers
have crossed the Atlantic, and know far more about California than I do;
so that I may well leave any descriptions to their memories or
imaginations. It is the humanity of my story with which we have to do.
They had been eagerly looked for at Los Angeles, and were welcomed with
unbounded love and respect. Donald and his father drew aside for a
moment, but what they said to each other only God knows. There is a
divine silence in forgiveness. When Peter first met Christ, after his
denial of Him, what did Peter say? What did Christ say? We are not told;
but great wrongs can be wiped out in one tender word, though such acts
in the drama of life are not translatable. It was different with
Macbeth. He greeted his guests with a proud and delightful extravagance.
"You are welcome, '_Men of St. Andrews!_'" he cried; "you are tenfold
welcome!" And for the next five weeks he gave himself to entertaining
them in every possible way. The pretty Spanish wife was shy and
reticent, but her three sons spoke for her, and Donald was evidently the
idol of his house and in all his surroundings prosperous and happy.
Jessy Caird, however, had failed and faded physically more than she
ought to have done, so Ian was not slow to take the first opportunity of
speaking confidentially to her. She was sitting just within the open
door of her bungalow. Her eyes were closed, her work had fallen from her
hands, and there was no book of any kind within her reach. Ian wondered
at these things. Jessy doing nothing! Jessy without a book! What could
be the meaning of it?
She opened her eyes as she heard his approach, and said with a smile,
"You are walking like your old self, Ian, but for all that sit down by
me."
"That is what I am here for. I want to talk with you, and with you only.
My dear sister, you look sick--or very unhappy. Which is it?"
"Ian, I am both sick and unhappy. In the first place, I am heartbroken
for my native land. I want to see once more the green, green straths of
Scotland--the green straths with a haze of bluebells over them! I want
the gray, soft skies and the little silvery showers that blessed both
humanity and nature with constant freshness. And O Ian, I want, I want,
I want the living tongue of running water! Do you mind that, in all the
summers we spent in Arran, we could not go anywhere on the island and
lose the happy sound of running water? Do you mind how the waters leaped
from rock to rock, and thundered down the craggy glens, and then went
singing and gurgling along the roadside? Ian, Ian, take me home! I want
to die in my own country!"
"_Die!_ Nonsense, Jessy! You must live for others even if you want to
die. I need you. You must go back to Scotland and help me. I have told
you of the great work my uncle and I are planning. We cannot do without
you."
Her face brightened, there was a smile in her eyes, and she looked
eagerly at Ian as he continued:
"It would make you heartsick to see that fine house in the Square going
to destruction. The Major's heart and head are in the building of the
church, and the servant men are neglecting everything beneath their
hands."
"It serves him right. The Major was set on having only servant men.
Three or four tidy women would have----"
"To be sure. We shall soon get rid of the men when you and I get home."
"What are you meaning, Ian? Speak straight."
"I am going to live with my uncle. He is an old man and needs me."
"Stuff and nonsense! He will never need either you or anybody else. You
may need him."
"I need him now, Jessy. He is mainly building the church. His heart and
soul are in it. He has given up practically his large business."
"Given up his business! What does the man mean?"
"He is only retaining the charge of three estates until the heirs come
of age. He promised to do that, and does not feel it right to break a
promise made to the dead."
"Well, then, a man may live decently from three estates."
"Jessy, we have laid out together such a great and good work, but
without your help we cannot carry it forward. We must have some good
woman to look after our food and our home. We are counting on you, and
you must stand by us."
"I will go with you gladly. I will soon put a stop to the wastrie and
pilfering going on in the Major's house; and I will take good care of
you two feckless, helpless men--but I am your sister, Ian; I must look
to my position."
"You are right. You will be mistress. You will stand at my right hand,
as you always did; and the Major said you were to have 'your will and
want and wish,' whatever it was. Jessy, you are going _home_."
"How soon, Ian?"
"Any mail may bring me word to hurry back to Scotland. I feel that I
ought to be there now. Get ready for an early journey."
In less than two weeks the expected letter, urging Ian's early return,
came; and Ian and Jessy set their faces Scotlandward the next day; but
Dr. Lindsey resolved to stay another month and see more of a country so
wonderfully fresh and interesting. Jessy went away very quietly, and it
struck Ian she was glad when the parting was over; and she acknowledged
that in a certain way she was so.
"I was that feared I would die there," she said, "and I could not keep
the little Border graveyard out of my thoughts. My kindred for three
hundred years lie there, and I wanted to take my last rest among them."
This feeling would be to an American an unthinkable source of anxiety,
but to the Scotch man or woman it would be a real and potent promoter of
the feeling. For they cherish the memory of their fathers--good or
bad--and there burns alive in them a sense of identity with the dead,
even to the twentieth generation. Ian thoroughly understood Jessy's
worry and respected her for it.
"You should have written to me, Jessy. A word concerning your fear would
have brought me to you at any time. Why did you think of dying? Were you
not well treated?"
"I could not have been better treated. I was close to Donald's heart,
the children loved me, and Macbeth wanted me to be his wife."
"And Mercedes?"
"Perhaps not so much. She was a wonderfully jealous little woman. She
did not like Donald or the children or her father to be long in my
company. She did her best to conquer the feeling, but how could she with
centuries of Castilian blood in her veins? It was my own fault if I was
not happy, but the longing for Scotland was above all other desires. I
had too little to do. I wanted some work that was _my_ work. No one can
be content without it."
"The children are fine boys."
"Yes--do you remember the morning you would not hear of their father
going either to the army or navy? You said he was the only Macrae to
keep up the name of the family, and forthwith sent him to a desk in
Reid's shipping office. You have four grandsons now, three of them
Macraes. You see God knew, if you could only have trusted Him. What is
the Major's worry now?"
"He has a hankering after a pulpit. I do not want one."
"But will your creed be respectable without a pulpit?"
"I have no creed."
"Ian!"
"Except the commandment that we love God and do unto others as we would
like them to do unto us. Love is the fulfilling of the whole law. If
this creed does not satisfy you, Jessy----"
"Oh, you know, Ian, I can abandon my creed at any time, but I shall
carry my prejudices into eternity."
Thus discussing, in Jessy's various moods, their old religious
differences, they came finally to the end of their journey, and found
the Major waiting to receive them at the Buchanan Street railway
station. He had ordered a feast to honor their arrival, and the men who
prepared it--not knowing for whom it was prepared--cooked it badly and
served it in slovenly fashion. The next morning they all went away
forever, and three clever, active girls reigned in their stead. Then
Jessy, the happy-tempered bringer of the best out of the worst, was
satisfied; and the Major knew he would have a home to live in, and Ian,
always fastidiously fond of order and quiet, was sure his domestic life
would fill every necessity of his public work.
This work was progressing in spite of various delays, and at the end of
the following year the beautiful building was fully ready for use. It
was filled as soon as opened. Doubtless, curiosity had something to do
with the crowded services; yet Ian was already much beloved among all
classes and conditions of men and women, for the love of God, which
filled and influenced his whole life, attracted to him the love of all
who met him. Many remembered him as a haughty cleric, full of learning,
and not very approachable, even to his own congregation. But this new
Ian was always smiling and kindly, ready to cure the wounded and heal
the sick and to give with love and sympathy all the consolations that
flow from the reality of heavenly things.
The opening of the new church was a great day in Glasgow. There was not
even standing room for one more worshiper, and when Ian saw a large
contingent from the old Church of the Disciples present he was very
happy. And as he looked at them his face shone with love and they saw it
as the face of a Man of God. Tender and inspiring was the sermon he
preached that day, and one sentence in it went--no one knew how--the
length and breadth of Scotland. Yea, before it had been spoken half an
hour there came to him testimony that it had begun its mission. For, as
he was walking leisurely down Sanchiehall Street, Bailie Muir, an old
class-mate at St. Andrews, joined him.
"O man! man!" he cried in an exultant voice, "I bless you for some words
you said to-day! I have been longing to hear them, though I knew not
until this morning what I wanted."
"And you know now, Bailie?"
"Yes. You said that we came here to _work out_ our salvation with fear
and trembling. Listen! You said, '_Immortality is an achievement!_ It is
not a favor, not a gift, not a selection, not a chance; it is something
we must work for--something we must win. _Immortality is an
achievement!_' Are these words true?"
"They are faithful and true words. Come home with me and we will talk
them over."
Thus out of the old paths and into the brighter new ones this great
heart led his people. By day or night he knew no weariness in
well-doing. His loving kindness was a constant over-flowing of self on
others--a heavenly thing, springing from the soul just at that point
where the divine image is nearest and clearest.
Do you ask if he is preaching to-day? It is not impossible. Yet my
feeling is that by the full employment of a holy life he arrived some
years ago at maturity for death. Such a man could not linger too long on
the Border Land. Christ himself would speak the _compelle intrare_,
"Enter! Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord!"
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Playing With Fire, by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr