blighted being. The consciousness of his calamity, like a frosty cloud,
enveloped his imagination; and, seen through this cloud, the world
had lost its glory. And before he had been a week at home there came
from his betrothed a letter which brought the blush to his cheek.
With unsteady pen and bad spelling, the poor girl had laboured to
express her affection, but, alas! had only betrayed her meagre and
undeveloped mind. As he read this epistle at breakfast, his mother was
watching him; and he knew that she was wondering who his illiterate
correspondent could be; and to give her no more ground for suspicion,
he was mean enough to bribe Marjory, the servant, to bring his letters
in future directly to himself, and not to lay them on the breakfast
table.
One day, however, when he was superintending (or "grieving," as it was
called) the haymakers, an idea struck across his brain, and instantly
changed his whole mood, and filled his heart with delight. Grace, he
thought, was uneducated just now, but was it necessary that she should
remain so? She was naturally bright and clever, and without doubt would
be eager to learn. Why should she not have the opportunity? He would
earn some money by going out as a tutor, and with this money he would
send her to a first-class boarding-school, where she would learn the
accomplishments, manners, and graces; and thus she would become a young
lady of whom anyone in his position might be proud. A fond dream which
might so easily be realised!
But when, in his next letter, he had propounded his plan to Grace, she,
instead of accepting it gratefully, rejected it with the utmost scorn.
She had some difficulty in expressing her love, but none in giving vent
to her indignation. So (she wrote) he was ashamed of her because she
could not jabber a few French phrases, and hammer on the piano; and he
wanted her to go to one of those boarding-schools, where nothing but
what was bad could be learned. She would not go to one of these dens
of wickedness; but as he was ashamed of her, she would poison herself,
and her murder would lie at his door. Thus ended Blair's first and last
attempt to educate his betrothed.
Three years had passed without altering the state of matters. His
parents had come to know of his engagement, and he saw, by their looks,
how deeply disappointed and chagrined they were. He had frequently
visited Grace; and although he could not help being pleased with
her affectionate greeting, yet her frequent vulgar remarks, and her
mother's coarse style of joking, stung him to the quick. And now there
happened a change of circumstances which stirred up within him a
strange mixture of vexation and delight. The letters of Miss Bourhill
came to be short and far between. He suspected that there was some new
attraction engrossing her; and he asked a confidential friend in St
Andrews to ascertain if this was so. His suspicion was correct. She was
frequently seen with a divinity student, by name Harker, good-looking
after a sort, but notoriously self-indulgent and even loose in his
principles. In fact, his very name at the University seemed redolent
of dissipation; and his presence among innocent young girls would have
been deemed absolutely blighting. He would have looked like an obscene
raven among a troop of snowy doves. This man was now Mrs Bourhill's
lodger, and it was evident that Miss Grace was trying her charms upon
him. The reason of this double-dealing was equally clear. As a student
of the Established Church, he had the prospect of a better manse, and a
larger and surer stipend, than Blair would ever possess.
This revelation threw Blair into a fever of excitement; and various
feelings within him struggled for the mastery: Indignation at being
jilted for such a worthless rival; shame at having been inveigled into
tying himself to such a mercenary flirt; determination to do his utmost
to free himself; and exultation at the prospect of being able to do so.
Under the influence of this whirlpool of emotion he set out to walk to
St Andrews, and was carried along at a great pace, scarcely noticing
the objects that he passed, and making little of the long distance. As
he drew near to the ancient city, there came into his view two figures
that instantly revived his flagging feelings--Harker and Miss Bourhill
returning from a walk on the links. Keeping well behind them, he dogged
their footsteps, and watched with a fiendish gratification how they
talked, looked into each other's faces and laughed, until they reached
College Street and disappeared in Mrs Bourhill's house. Then he entered
without much ceremony, received the surprise and the salutation of the
two women, who were in the lobby, with a cold and stern manner, said
that he wished to speak with Grace alone, and following her into the
parlour, locked the door to keep the mother out.
Malcolm lost no time in giving vent to his feelings. He told her the
reports that had reached him; he exposed the deplorable character
of Harker; he demanded that she should break off all correspondence
with this man whose touch was an insult to a woman; and he wound up by
saying that she must, on the spot, and once for all, choose between him
and this new admirer. He spoke with great vehemence and determination,
and expected to see her completely overwhelmed with shame and confusion.
But what was his astonishment to find that this uneducated girl, with
nothing but her animal cunning, was more than a match for all his
culture, and was prepared to defend her conduct out and out. With the
air and smile of one who was dealing with a testy and unreasonable
child, she proceeded to argue the matter with him. Did he really mean
to blame her, because she spoke to her mother's lodger, and because
she allowed him, when he met her in the street, to walk home with her?
And did he really wish her to promise not to speak to Mr Harker? They
could not afford to turn him away, and as long as he remained in their
rooms they could not insult him. Then, waxing righteously indignant,
she demanded why he employed sneaks to tell tales of her, and why he
came raging and locking the door as if he were going to murder her. The
fact was, that he was ashamed of her, and wanted to pick a quarrel, and
to get an excuse for throwing her off. But, thank God! although she was
a poor girl, she was not without friends. Her uncle, the solicitor in
Edinburgh, would see that she was not wronged. And having said all this
calmly, she unlocked the door and went out.
After a rest and slight repast at the Star Hotel, Malcolm returned home
full of the gloomiest thoughts. This wretched girl had come out in her
true character--cunning, unscrupulous, heartless. While she claimed the
liberty of throwing him off, he was not to have the liberty of throwing
her off. That reference to her uncle, the solicitor, showed that the
terrors of the law would be employed, if necessary, to keep him to his
bargain. It was a gloomy future that was opening up before him; and for
several days he wandered aimlessly about, the most melancholy of men.
But Nature takes care that a healthy young soul shall not droop for
long. Like a downtrodden daisy, it revives under the influence of
sunshine and shower, and opens its heart to the brightness of Spring.
When weeks had passed without bringing a letter from Miss Bourhill, he
became sanguine, nay, even confident. Her new flirtation was evidently
prospering. Harker would soon be licensed; and, as he was glib and
clever enough, he would soon get a church and marry her; and then,
oh! what an ominous cloud would be lifted from his life! He would
then be a free man! And so a miraculous change now came over him.
His youth seemed to be restored; and he began to look with a new and
fresh interest on all the old familiar scenes. His mother noticed the
transformation, and knew the cause; and, as she said to her husband,
"Now that the boy was himself again, the farmyard and the fields seemed
brighter and pleasanter."
But unfortunately this exultation was premature. One evening towards
the end of March, as he sat in the parlour reading the county paper,
his eyes fell upon a paragraph which struck him like an electric shock.
He tried hard to fancy that the narrative might not be true after all;
but the details were given in such a circumstantial and confident
manner, that he was compelled in the end to believe them. They were as
follows:--
"SAD DEATH OF A STUDENT.
"On the afternoon of Friday last, two divinity students, Harker and
Johnstone, set out from St Andrews for a walk in the country. As they
passed through Strathkinness, they stopped for refreshment at a small
inn. After a time they seemed to have grown reckless, and to have
set in for serious drinking; and in rapid succession they ordered
tumbler after tumbler of whisky toddy; and when the landlord, becoming
alarmed, refused to supply them with any more, they left and went
to another public-house, where they had several glasses of brandy.
When they started to go home, they were both unsteady, especially
Johnstone. Some of the villagers saw them staggering down the street,
and overheard Harker abusing his companion for being drunk. Next
morning, Johnstone was found lying dead by the roadside near Denbrae,
between Strathkinness and St Andrews; and when Harker, who had arrived
at his lodgings late on the previous night, was asked what had become
of his companion, he grew confused, and could only say that he could
not get him to come along, and had been obliged to leave him. On
Monday, the Senatus Academicus summoned Harker before them, and, after
due deliberation, passed upon him the extreme sentence of expulsion.
This is a severe punishment, blighting as it does his whole future
career: but a still more terrible punishment must be the reflection,
that he took a poor unsophisticated youth into a public-house,
deliberately set to work to make him tipsy, and then in the end left
him to perish by the wayside."
As Blair read this passage, he fell back again into the Slough of
Despond, and all the delight of life vanished once more. He knew that
the siren, whom he now loathed and had hoped to get rid of, would fall
back upon him and again cling to him; and, just as he had foreboded, in
a few days came the well-known hateful scrawl, appealing in a vulgar
manner to his affections. What, she went on to say, had come over him?
Had he fallen in love with some milkmaid and forgotten his poor little
Gracie. She had been breaking her heart, waiting for a letter from him;
and all the neighbours had been noticing that she had fallen away from
her clothes. Was not that a dreadful scrape Harker had got into? She
was not surprised at it, knowing what a bad character he was. Though
she had been obliged to be civil to him, she had always hated him.
Thank goodness she would now get rid of his attentions! With a whole
lot of kisses, and waiting for a letter from him, she was his own Grace.
After reading this, he gnashed his teeth with vexation and disgust,
tore the letter to pieces, and threw it in the fire. He did not answer
it; and he vowed that from that time he would treat her with the silent
contempt she deserved.
At the end of another year, Blair was licensed to preach, and became
what is called a _probationer_. He had looked forward to this as the
great epoch of his life, the turning-point of his career, when he
was to become the accredited legate of heaven, to bear the message
of salvation to his perishing fellow-creatures. Could anyone have a
nobler work? But, unfortunately, this sacred office was hampered by
preliminary conditions which he felt to be exceedingly humiliating.
He had first to get a church; and in order to get a church, he had
to please that very uncertain thing called the popular taste. In
this perplexing task, the great stores of learning which he had been
piling up for so many years gave him little or no assistance. He sat
down doggedly and constructed his sermon after the most approved
conventional method. By persistent reiteration he committed it to
memory, word for word. With fluttering heart and trembling knees he
went up to the pulpit on Sunday and began to give it off. During this
unwinding process, he did not see the congregation before him; but he
was looking at the image of his manuscript; and his mind's eye was
running over line after line and page after page. It was a recitation
exercise, and not a living speech coming warm from the heart of the
speaker and going direct to the heart of the hearers. And all the
while, he did not feel that he was pleading with his fellow-creatures
to accept the Word of God. He felt that he was really begging them to
notice how ably he was treating the subject, how effectively he was
delivering it, and what a promising young creature he was. He was, in
fact, a sort of itinerant theological hawker, hawking his spiritual
wares from town to town.
And as time went on, he found himself beaten in the bid for popularity
by fellow-students who were far inferior to him in ability and
scholarship. Sim, who could not for the life of him construe a Latin
sentence, and Macfarlane Macdonald, who was never known to have a
single idea in his head on any subject whatever, found no difficulty
in tickling the ear of the many-headed beast, and became ordained
ministers while he continued to wander about, an uncalled probationer.
It soon became evident that Malcolm Blair, the most distinguished
student of his time, was in danger of becoming "a stickit minister."
But this universe is constructed on the grand principle of
compensation. Providence seldom inflicts a wound without supplying a
soothing plaster. That want of success, which lands us in poverty and
hardship, scares away our false friends. Miss Grace Bourhill thought
herself too good to be a stickit minister's wife; and while Blair's
fate hung in the balance, ceased altogether to correspond with him; and
at length, to his infinite relief, he heard that she was married to a
cousin of her own, a prosperous brewer in St Andrews. Freedom at last!
and brought about in an unexpected way! He now gloried exceedingly
in his failure as a preacher. What was the want of manse and stipend
compared with the escape from that incubus which had pressed the very
spirit out of him! The world now lay bright before him, and he was
free to go his own way by himself. As the church did not want him, he
would adopt some other calling; and he was actually preparing himself
to undertake either literary or scholastic work, when he received an
invitation to engage in one of the most striking enterprises of the day.
Those that knew Fife more than fifty years ago must remember Miss
Singleton, who worked such wonders in the way of evangelising the
mining village of Coaltown. She belonged to that strongly-marked
and combative class of female social reformers; and certainly she
was one of the best specimens of the class. She was not, like some
of her sisterhood, conceited, arrogant, and masculine. Though she
was strong-minded, she was also strong-hearted. If she was bold and
aggressive, it was in urging the claims of the oppressed, and not in
exhibiting her own cleverness. Her plan for raising the sunken masses
was direct and drastic. "Get rid," she said to the missionary, "of all
that priestly parade and formality which have concealed so long the
true living face of religion. Return to Christ's sublimely simple plan,
which is founded on the two everlasting facts of the Fatherhood of God
and the Brotherhood of man. Imitate Him as far as the circumstances
of the time will allow. Go down among the lapsed masses, not with
man-millinery, patronising airs, and doles of blankets and soup, but
with wisdom in your head and real love in your heart. Live amongst
them, become one of themselves, and help them in their difficulties and
sorrows." Such was the method which Miss Singleton herself had carried
out; and the results were said to be marvellous.
This was the lady who now wrote to Malcolm Blair. "She had listened
to his preaching," she said, "and had heard of him from some other
friends, and she thought that he might be able to assist her in her
labours. She could not give him very much in the form of money, but he
might be able to find some of his reward in the work itself. Should he
think favourably of this proposal, would he kindly call upon her?"
After considering this matter long and carefully, Blair came to the
conclusion that he could not do better than wait upon Miss Singleton.
And when he had once seen her and talked with her, he could not refuse
her offer. Miss Singleton's whole personality was like a pleasing
revelation to him. Instead of the bold-featured, masculine-looking
woman that he expected to see, he beheld a gentle and beautiful young
lady, the secret of whose power lay in her feminine tact and sympathy.
And when he saw her moving about among the poor, she seemed to him
the very embodiment of the spirit of Christianity. Wherever there was
sickness or sorrow--that was her chosen abode. There was comfort in
the sound of her voice; there was healing in her very touch. Her smile
was the highest reward, and her look of painful disapproval was the
heaviest punishment. In her presence the coarsest miner felt ashamed
of his conduct, and silently vowed to give up swearing and drinking.
Like the rest of those who came under Miss Singleton's influence, Blair
soon caught her enthusiasm. He threw himself heart and soul into the
work of evangelising Coaltown, visiting the houses of the poor miners,
talking with them in a brotherly way, listening to their troubles
and ailments, and helping them to help themselves. There were many
experiences which filled his senses with disgust, and even sickened
his very soul. But there were also many surprising results which amply
atoned for all his pain. What sight could be more pleasing than to see
a ragged and red-faced drunkard gradually being transformed into a
well-clad and intelligent man; and what sound could be more delightful
than to hear the thanks of a wife and children for a husband and father
reclaimed, and a home made happy?
But the most gratifying circumstance was a change in his own nature,
which may seem almost miraculous, but which has happened to others,
and which can easily be explained. This new evangelising work actually
remedied the defects of his theological training; and "the Back
Raw" of Coaltown became a school of eloquence, and did for him what
the University and Divinity Hall had been unable to do. The intimate
knowledge which he there acquired of human nature filled his heart
with a fuller sympathy; and this fuller sympathy let loose his power
of utterance. Out of the abundance of his heart his mouth spoke. He
was so eager to supply comfort and guidance that he gave no thought
to his language, and his language came readily of its own accord.
In preparing his Sunday discourses, there was no longer any need of
slavishly writing them down and committing every word. All he had to do
was to think out the subject, to arrange the details, and to trust to
the inspiration of the moment for the language. The consequence was,
that he drew large audiences, that his fame as a preacher soon spread
abroad, and that, when he least expected such a thing, he received a
call from a large dissenting congregation in the town of Easterton.
Though this call gratified him exceedingly for several reasons, and
chiefly because it vindicated his character as a preacher, and took him
out of the black list of stickit ministers, yet he hesitated before he
accepted it. He found himself bound to Coaltown by a feeling almost
stronger than life itself. In spite of its dismalness and poverty,
it had become to him an enchanted ground. There was a presence which
brightened the landscape; there was a voice which diffused a holy calm
through the air; and this presence and this voice belonged to Miss
Singleton. She was the daybreak that had arisen upon his night of
despondency, and had filled the world with light and melody; and to
part from her was to go back into darkness again. And when he spoke
about his dilemma to herself, he found that she was just as much
affected as he was. With tears in her eyes, she confessed that she
would miss him very much.
However, just when he was on the point of asking why they should part,
and why they should not continue to work together as husband and
wife, she rallied both herself and him to a sense of duty. This call,
she said, had brought a great opportunity of applying the system to
the degraded classes of a large town, which might never occur again.
It was an epoch in his life: it might be an epoch in the history of
Christianity. He must, therefore, throw all other considerations aside,
and accept it. Meanwhile at least, they must deny themselves all other
pleasures. Self-denial was necessary to their spiritual life. It was
the manna which kept them alive in this wilderness of a world.
Malcolm Blair, accordingly, had no other alternative than to accept
the call; and at the end of a few weeks had to tear himself away from
Coaltown. His only consolation (and it was a great one, filling his
soul with the highest hopes) was that Miss Singleton had shown that she
was most tenderly attached to him.
The 27th of April was set apart for his ordination by the Presbytery in
the dissenting church of Easterton. It was a day that was doomed to be
memorable to him for ever. At the beginning of the ceremony he was in a
melancholy mood. He had been overworking himself, had fainted more than
once, and felt weak and nervous. As he sat under the pulpit, looking
out upon the crowded pews, he saw nothing in the faces of his new
congregation save staring curiosity; and away to the right was a dark
countenance full of settled hate. He knew who it was. It was the Rev.
Ewan Murdoch, who had been his fellow-student at St Andrews, and had
been known as "Dark Murdoch," and who had been one of the unsuccessful
candidates for the pulpit of the present congregation.
"If I have a mortal enemy," said the new minister to himself, "there
he sits, one of those wretched beings who look upon the success of a
fellow-creature as an unpardonable injury."
Towards the conclusion of the service, however, Malcolm passed into a
better mood. The preacher's sermon on the text, "Fellow-workers with
God," spoke words of encouragement that went to his heart. The first
line of the concluding psalm was, "Unto the upright light doth rise,"
and no sooner was it read than an outburst of sunshine flooded the
building. Then, when the congregation in a long line passed before him
to give him the right hand of fellowship, there was warmth in every
smile and in every grip. And amongst them, what should he see but the
face of Miss Singleton! He was so delighted that he compared her to an
angel bringing with her the atmosphere of heaven.
"Miss Smeaton and I," said she, "came this morning. We must make some
calls in the town, and then we shall drop in at the manse to have a cup
of tea and a long chat."
He left the church full of hope and happiness. As he walked up the
High Street, it was with a springy step, so that the gossips standing
on the stairheads remarked what a pleasant-looking, active man he was.
And when he entered the manse garden at Highfield, he thought that
he had never seen a more charming place. The house stood on a site
commanding an extensive view of the Firth of Forth, with the castle and
spires of Edinburgh distinct against the horizon; and the garden in
front, with its green gooseberry bushes and apple trees, sloped towards
the sunny south. There, too, in the doorway of his new abode, stood his
mother, now in widow's weeds, who had brought herself and her furniture
to make a home for him. Truly he thought, "the lines had fallen to him
in pleasant places." And after a comfortable lunch, they had a long
confidential talk, in which he told about Miss Singleton's intended
visit, and gave a glowing account of Miss Singleton herself, and hinted
that he intended to ask her to be his wife.
"Then, oh! happiness," he said, "for us three to live in this paradise
together! What a blessed helper she will be in my work, and what a kind
housekeeper and guardian you will make! It is a prospect almost too
good for this world."
They were still talking when the servant came in to say that two ladies
were in the drawing-room wishing to see the minister. Malcolm started
up, radiant with joy.