_THE TAINT OF HERESY_
Our son was growing into a goodly lad (everything happened either
before or after baby was born) when it first actually broke on me that
Gordon's Doctorate had been a dear-bought prize. For Gordon was now a
Doctor of Divinity--and he had won it by examination, too, long years
of severe study and wide reading having gone before. I didn't begrudge
the time, and the seclusion, this had implied; but I just hated the
whole thing when I found out how it had affected Gordon's views. I
never did believe much in ministers being such terrible students as
many of them are; I verily believe as many preachers are spoiled by
books as are helped by them, for they often grow less human while
they're growing more profound. The Bible and the daily paper--truth
and human life--some great preacher pronounced his two main books, and
I'm inclined to agree with him. Gordon gave me one of his deep books
to read once--Harnack, I think, was the name of the man who wrote
it--and I went to sleep over it for my husband's sake but not for Mr.
Harnack's. Gordon may call that kind of theology new, I thought, but
it's not interesting.
The whole thing--about Gordon's views, I mean--came out this way. Of
course I fancy a good many already suspected he was rather modern in
his creed; especially Mr. Ashton, who became more orthodox every time
he cut the wages of the poor girls in his factory. But I never knew,
nor any one else, how far Gordon had drifted from the old moorings,
till a certain evangelist came to hold a mission in Hertford. He was a
converted prize-fighter--changed from a pounder into an ex-pounder, so
to speak--and he loved to give us a whiff of his malodorous past every
time he got a chance; I reckon he fancied any one who had had such a
violent attack of sin was immune for the rest of his days. I went to
hear him several times; but one night he said if he had to choose
between a pack of cards in his house or a rattlesnake turned loose
among his children, he'd take the snake. I knew then he was either a
fool or a liar, one--and I had no mind to listen to either--so I never
went near him again.
However, Gordon was presiding one night when this man was preaching;
and the evangelist suddenly broke out with the statement that the most
moral, or the most philanthropic, man in the whole world would get as
hot a place in hell as the worst murderer or thief, if he didn't
believe what he ought to believe.
"Isn't that so, Dr. Laird?" he said, turning to my husband.
"No," said Gordon, "it's not."
Well, as you may understand, there was something pretty to pay. The
evangelist nearly fainted on the spot; as soon as he came to himself he
asked them all to join in prayer--and he prayed that Gordon might be
converted that very night. Gordon! whose shoe's latchet he was not
worthy to unloose.
"You've denied your Master, sir," Mr. Ashton accused Gordon afterwards,
having waited for him at the door; "you've repudiated the great
doctrine of salvation--in the presence of a thousand people, sir."
Gordon motioned him aside. When he told me all about it afterwards, he
avowed himself ashamed of the degree of temper he had shown, but I said
I'd have been ashamed of him if he hadn't.
"What's this you accuse me of?" demanded Gordon.
"You aren't fit to be a minister," affirmed Mr. Ashton hotly; "I'm
ashamed of you as the pastor of St. Andrew's, sir."
"Why?" pursued Gordon.
"Because our church, sir, our church has always been noted for its
orthodoxy. We've always held to the simple Gospel--and you've gone
back on it, sir. I knew it was coming; I could tell it by the things
you preached about."
"What things?" although Gordon knew right well.
"Well, take last Sunday for instance; you preached on the duty of
employers of labour--a lot of stuff about fresh air, and short hours,
and taking care of sick hands--a lot of unspiritual stuff like that.
When I go to church, sir, I want the Gospel, the simple Gospel--and
nothing but the Gospel. Mr. Seybold's the same way; he says he's
disgusted with many of your sermons, about worldly things. You stick
to the Gospel, sir, and worldly things will take care of themselves,"
concluded Mr. Ashton, wagging his pious head.
"You mean Seybold the brewer, don't you?" enquired Gordon.
"Yes," said Mr. Ashton; "and he's one of the richest men in our church,
as you know yourself."
"I don't know anything about it," was Gordon's curt reply; "but I don't
wonder at his zeal for the Gospel--or yours either. I don't know any
men that have more need to make their calling and election sure. He's
a vampire, sir--and so are you."
"A what?" roared Mr. Ashton. "I'm a what?" He did not know what a
vampire was, of course; but there was something in Gordon's voice and
eye that made the word tell its meaning. Gordon would have withered
him just the same if he had called him a rectangular hypotenuse.
"A vampire, I said," Gordon hurled back at him; "both of you live on
the defenseless and the poor. It's sickening," and Gordon's voice rang
higher, "to hear you, or him, prating about the Gospel, while he makes
his wealth out of human misery--and you, you oppress the poor--you
grind their faces, and you know it. You take your blood money from
poor girls that have to toil in that sweat-box of yours--and you don't
care whether they live or die, so long as they serve your selfish ends.
I have visited more than one dying girl that got her death in your
employ--as Jennie McMillan did--and you prance your horses past the
door when they're dying, and even after the crape is on it, and you
never stop to ask for them; and then you come prattling to me about not
preaching the Gospel!"
Gordon paused; out of breath, I reckon. By this time quite a number of
the crowd had eddied back, listening attentively, you may be sure, to
this candid conversation. One or two of them gave me a detailed
account later on.
"I appeal," blustered Mr. Ashton, "I appeal to those who know me. I
spoke to you as an officer of St. Andrew's. I have been a faithful
supporter of the church--and I've always paid my debts," he blurted out
irrelevantly, hard put to it to make defense.
"Ye ha'ena'," a squeaking voice came suddenly from the bystanders.
Mr. Ashton turned sharply round. "I haven't?--where's the man that
dares to say I haven't?" he hectored, searching the group for the
interrupter.
"I'm the mon," came quietly from the lips of a little old Scotchman as
he moved slowly to the front; "ye didna' pay oor Jock what ye owed him.
He took the consumption workin' for ye," the squeaky voice went on,
"an' when he lay deein', ye never lookit near him; an' the day o' his
funeral, ye drove by the hoose wi'oot lookin' at us. An' he was a
foreman till ye for mair nor twenty year," the plaintive indictment
proceeded--"an' ye owed him a wee bit mark o' respec' like that. An'
ye never paid it--but it's ower late noo." Then the little man slipped
back among the bystanders; Mr. Ashton followed him, loudly protesting
that the dead servant had got his wages regularly, the second Tuesday
of every month.
Gordon took advantage of the diversion to move away; and the story,
substantially as I have told it, was given to me on his arrival home.
I did not question him closely about the original cause of the
discussion--about his theological views, I mean; but it started an
uneasiness that grew upon me day by day. And a few weeks later I
learned something more that did not reassure me much.
I was sitting with Harold--we had named our son Gordon Harold; but the
latter half was what we called him, to avoid confusion--one evening in
the study; two ministers, visitors to some church gathering and guests
of ours, were talking on the piazza. By and by Harold grew silent, and
so did I; which, I suppose, led the two brethren to think I had
disappeared. And they talked freely.
"It's too bad," one of them said, whereat I sat up and listened, "that
Laird's gone that way. He can't hold those views, and his pulpit, at
the same time."
"Have you any idea what his views really are?" the other asked.
"They're anything but sound," his friend replied, "and that's the plain
English of it. Any man who holds them has no right to be in the
ministry." My blood began to sizzle. I knew this reverend brother--a
comfortable pastor of a comfortable congregation, who spent most of his
time simply trying to be "sound," to use his own word; saving doctrines
and losing men, as I heard Gordon say once in a sermon.
"What are they?" persisted the other.
"Well," began the first, "I don't believe he's very sound on the
miracles. And then, he contends we're all divine--doesn't deny the
divinity of our Lord, however. But I think he often closes his prayer
without saying 'for Christ's sake'; at least, so I've heard."
"Perhaps he means it just the same," suggested his companion.
"Then he ought to say it--a prayer that hasn't that doesn't go higher
than the roof, in my opinion. And I believe he contends no man can
explain the Atonement--from an intellectual standpoint, that is. He
told me as much--I told him I could explain it all right. He replied
that he interpreted it more by his heart than his reason. And that's
dangerous ground, Mr. Forest, very dangerous ground."
"Is that all?" the other enquired, evidently not overcome by the
arraignment.
"No, it's not. They say he believes prayer has no power to influence
the course of events--regards it only as a kind of pious communion;
doesn't believe in praying for anything in particular, I'm told. And
he has his doubts as to who wrote the Hebrews. I told him it was
Paul--but he still seemed to have doubts. And he thinks the Confession
of Faith is too long and too intricate. That's dangerous too--it's the
thin end of the wedge, Mr. Forest, the thin end of the wedge," and from
where I sat I could hear the censor shut his lips.
"He's a mighty devoted minister, anyway," the other interposed; "I've
had long talks with him myself. And there's only one thing troubles
me--I'm afraid, I really am, that he clings too much to a merely
ethical Christ. He's tinged with that, I'm sure; glories in Him as a
Teacher, and Healer of mankind, and all that sort of thing. Laird's a
great healer himself, you know--he's a marvel with the sick, and the
sorrowing, and the poor. But I'm afraid he's drifting--he began with
Drummond, and ended with Harnack." I recognized the soporific name.
"Oh, yes, there's another thing," resumed the orthodox one; "Laird has
doubts as to whether or not sorrow comes from God. Affliction, you
know; bereavement, suffering, the death of little children--everything
like that. He's inclined, I'm afraid, to attribute it to another
source--doesn't seem to be clear that it's God's will for us to
suffer," and I could hear the comfortable one settling back in the
softly-cushioned chair. "Now, that never troubles me at all--I always
feel certain our sorest sorrows come from God; was just saying so
yesterday to a woman whose little boy was drowned. He was her only
child."
"Did you ever lose a child?" the other minister asked quietly.
"Oh, no, I've never had any trouble of that kind, thank God. Ours are
all well and strong. By the way, Forest, our train goes in a little
over an hour. I suppose we'll have dinner before we go--it's tea here,
I believe, in the evening. Doesn't suit me altogether, either--I've
had a new kind of life since I began taking dinner in the evening," as
he rose from his chair and began to move restlessly about.
I glided away noiselessly like one in a dream. My heart was leaden,
and I thought it was all for love of Gordon and dread of what might
thus befall him. My principal thought, as I remember, was of his
relation to his work--and his position--and his future. Yet I know now
that what gave me the deepest pain was a trembling fear lest those
things should slip from _me_--as from him--the things I reckoned the
foundation stones of the life that was so happy now. Without knowing
it, ever since that night I saw Jennie die, the secret between my heart
and Christ had been growing more rich and full. I esteemed Him the
meeting-place whereon Gordon and I had found each other; and I feared,
though I could not have put it into words, that distance from Him would
mean distance from each other. Perhaps it was wrong; perhaps these two
passions of my heart should have been reverently kept separate--but
they were blended and intertwined in a union that was altogether holy.
I kissed Harold gently as I bended over his bed and tucked him in an
hour later; he stirred in his sleep as my hot tears fell upon his face.
Then I knelt beside him--I remembered how my mother used thus to kneel
by me--and I prayed, pleadingly, in the new-found way that had grown so
dear. My pleading was all for Gordon, passionate in its intercession,
as though he were drifting out to sea, and God alone could bring him
back.
I was hardly risen from my knees when Gordon came home. He came at
once to where I was; and he smiled in that happy way he had, whenever
he saw me bending over Harold. It always seemed to delight him so.
"You're an idolater, Helen, aren't you?" he said.
I clung to him in a very spasm of fondness, as if he were slipping from
me. My heart cried out in a wild, hungry way, though my lips were
still. I wanted to call him back, back to the shelter where our life's
happiness began.
"And I don't blame you, dear," he went musingly on as he looked down on
the rosy face; "life is all preface till you have children, isn't
it?--the real volume comes after that."
"I could die for him," I said. (This was with a purpose. I was
trying, for the first time, a lesson in theology. It struck me with a
kind of amusing pain, my poor attempt to teach Gordon--Gordon so
learned, so clever.)
"So could I," he murmured.
"It makes me understand how--how One died for us all," I faltered,
coming to my point with desperate directness. How the angels must have
smiled if they heard my first attempt at preaching! "It helps me
understand how love and suffering must go together--God can't help it
any more than we. If I were a preacher, Gordon, I'd preach that all
the time."
He turned and looked at me in amazement. Then his arms went round me
tight. "Darling," he said gently, "you're a lovely missionary--and I'm
a heathen; I'm an idolater--like you--only you're my idol."
"But you believe that, don't you, Gordon?" I urged, "that--what I said?
You do, don't you, Gordon?"
His eyes studied my face, and so gravely, for a moment.
"Is my wife growing alarmed about me too?" he said, half seriously;
"don't be uneasy, darling--your husband's sound, all right. Only I
still plead guilty to idolatry--kiss me, so I'll know you're human," he
concluded, laughing.