The suggestion that the Reverend Hugh Finlay preached from the pulpit
of Knox Church “better sermons” than its permanent occupant, would have
been justly considered absurd, and nobody pronounced it. The church was
full, as Mrs Forsyth observed, on these occasions; but there were many
other ways of accounting for that. The Murchisons, as a family, would
have been the last to make such an admission. The regular attendance
might have been, as much as anything, out of deference to the wishes
of the Doctor himself, who invariably and sternly hoped, in his last
sermon, that no stranger occupying his place would have to preach to
empty pews. He was thinking, of course, of old Mr Jamieson with whom he
occasionally exchanged and whose effect on the attendance had not failed
to reach him. With regard to Mr Jamieson he was compelled, in the end,
to resort to tactics: he omitted to announce the Sunday before that his
venerable neighbour would preach, and the congregation, outwitted,
had no resource but to sustain the beard-wagging old gentleman through
seventhly to the finish. There came a time when the dear human Doctor
also omitted to announce that Mr Finlay would preach, but for other
reasons, meanwhile, as Mrs Forsyth said, he had no difficulty in
conjuring a vacation congregation for his young substitute. They
came trooping, old and young. Mr and Mrs Murchison would survey their
creditable family rank with a secret compunction, remembering its
invariable gaps at other times, and then resolutely turn to the praise
of God with the reflection that one means to righteousness was as
blessed as another. They themselves never missed a Sunday, and as seldom
failed to remark on the way back that it was all very interesting, but
Mr Finlay couldn’t drive it home like the Doctor. There were times,
sparse and special occasions, when the Doctor himself made one of the
congregation. Then he would lean back luxuriously in the corner of
his own pew, his wiry little form half-lost in the upholstery his
arms folded, his knees crossed, his face all humorous indulgence; yes,
humorous. At the announcement of the text a twinkle would lodge in the
shrewd grey eyes and a smile but half-suppressed would settle about the
corners of the flexible mouth: he knew what the young fellow there would
be at. And as the young fellow proceeded, his points would be weighed to
the accompaniment of the Doctor’s pendent foot, which moved perpetually,
judiciously; while the smile sometimes deepened, sometimes lapsed, since
there were moments when any young fellow had to be taken seriously.
It was an attitude which only the Doctor was privileged to adopt thus
outwardly; but in private it was imitated all up and down the aisles,
where responsible heads of families sat considering the quality of the
manna that was offered them. When it fell from the lips of Mr Finlay the
verdict was, upon the whole, very favourable, as long as there was no
question of comparison with the Doctor.
There could be, indeed, very little question of such comparison. There
was a generation between them and a school, and to that you had to add
every set and cast of mind and body that can make men different. Dr
Drummond, in faith and practice, moved with precision along formal and
implicit lines; his orbit was established, and his operation within
it as unquestionable as the simplest exhibit of nature. He took in a
wonderful degree the stamp of the teaching of his adolescent period; not
a line was missing nor a precept; nor was the mould defaced by a single
wavering tendency of later date. Religious doctrine was to him a thing
for ever accomplished, to be accepted or rejected as a whole. He taught
eternal punishment and retribution, reconciling both with Divine love
and mercy; he liked to defeat the infidel with the crashing question,
“Who then was the architect of the Universe?” The celebrated among such
persons he pursued to their deathbeds; Voltaire and Rousseau owed their
reputation, with many persons in Knox Church, to their last moments and
to Dr Drummond. He had a triumphant invective which drew the mind from
chasms in logic, and a tender sense of poetic beauty which drew it, when
he quoted great lines, from everything else. He loved the euphony of the
Old Testament; his sonorous delivery would lift a chapter from Isaiah to
the height of ritual, and every Psalm he read was a Magnificat whether
he would or no. The warrior in him was happy among the Princes of
Issachar; and the parallels he would find for modern events in the
annals of Judah and of Israel were astounding. Yet he kept a sharp eye
upon the daily paper, and his reference to current events would often
give his listeners an audacious sense of up-to-dateness which might have
been easily discounted by the argument they illustrated. The survivors
of a convulsion of nature, for instance, might have learned from his
lips the cause and kind of their disaster traced back forcibly to
local acquiescence in iniquity, and drawn unflinchingly from the text,
“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” The militant history
of his Church was a passion with him; if ever he had to countenance
canonization he would have led off with Jenny Geddes. “A tremendous
Presbyterian” they called him in the town. To hear him give out a single
psalm, and sing it with his people, would convince anybody of that.
There was a choir, of course, but to the front pews, at all events, Dr
Drummond’s leading was more important than the choir’s. It was a note
of dauntless vigour, and it was plain by the regular forward jerk of his
surpliced shoulder that his foot was keeping time:
Where the assemblies of the just
And congregations are.
You could not help admiring, and you could not help respecting; you
were compelled by his natural force and his unqualified conviction, his
tireless energy and his sterling sort.
It is possible to understand, however, that after sitting for
twenty-five years under direction so unfailing and so uncompromising,
the congregation of Knox Church might turn with a moderate curiosity
to the spiritual indications of the Reverend Hugh Finlay. He was a
passionate romantic, and his body had shot up into a fitting temple for
such an inhabitant as his soul. He was a great long fellow, with a shock
of black hair and deep dreams in his eyes; his head was what people
called a type, a type I suppose of the simple motive and the noble
intention, the detached point of view and the somewhat indifferent
attitude to material things, as it may be humanly featured anywhere. His
face bore a confusion of ideals; he had the brow of a Covenanter and
the mouth of Adonais, the flame of religious ardour in his eyes and the
composure of perceived philosophy on his lips. He was fettered by an
impenetrable shyness; it was in the pulpit alone that he could expand,
and then only upon written lines, with hardly a gesture, and the most
perfunctory glances, at conscientious intervals, toward his hearers.
A poor creature, indeed, in this respect, Dr Drummond thought him--Dr
Drummond, who wore an untrammelled surplice which filled like an
agitated sail in his quick tacks from right to left. “The man loses half
his points,” said Dr Drummond. I doubt whether he did, people followed
so closely, though Sandy MacQuhot was of the general opinion when he
said that it would do nobody any harm if Mr Finlay would lift his head
oftener from the book.
Advena Murchison thought him the probable antitype of an Oxford don. She
had never seen an Oxford don, but Mr Finlay wore the characteristics
these schoolmen were dressed in by novelists; and Advena noted with
delight the ingenuity of fate in casting such a person into the pulpit
of the Presbyterian Church in a young country. She had her perception of
comedy in life; till Finlay came she had found nothing so interesting.
With his arrival, however, other preoccupations fell into their proper
places.
Finlay, indeed, it may be confessed at once, he and not his message was
her engrossment from the beginning. The message she took with reverent
gentleness; but her passionate interest was for the nature upon which
it travelled, and never for the briefest instant did she confuse these
emotions. Those who write, we are told transcribe themselves in spite
of themselves; it is more true of those who preach, for they are also
candid by profession, and when they are not there is the eye and the
voice to help to betray them. Hugh Finlay, in the pulpit, made himself
manifest in all the things that matter to Advena Murchison in the pew;
and from the pew to the pulpit her love went back with certainty, clear
in its authority and worshipping the ground of its justification. When
she bowed her head it was he whom she heard in the language of his
invocations; his doctrine rode, for her, on a spirit of wide and sweet
philosophy; in his contemplation of the Deity she saw the man. He had
those lips at once mobile, governed and patient, upon which genius
chooses oftenest to rest. As to this, Advena’s convictions were so
private as to be hidden from herself; she never admitted that she
thought Finlay had it, and in the supreme difficulty of proving anything
else we may wisely accept her view. But he had something, the subtle
Celt; he had horizons, lifted lines beyond the common vision, and an eye
rapt and a heart intrepid; and though for a long time he was unconscious
of it, he must have adventured there with a happier confidence because
of her companionship.
From the first Advena knew no faltering or fluttering, none of the baser
nervous betrayals. It was all one great delight to her, her discovery
and her knowledge and her love for him. It came to her almost in a
logical development; it found her grave, calm, and receptive. She had
even a private formula of gratitude that the thing which happened to
everybody, and happened to so many people irrelevantly, should arrive
with her in such a glorious defensible, demonstrable sequence. Toward
him it gave her a kind of glad secret advantage; he was loved and he was
unaware. She watched his academic awkwardness in church with the inward
tender smile of the eternal habile feminine, and when they met she could
have laughed and wept over his straightened sentences and his difficult
manner, knowing how little significant they were. With his eyes upon her
and his words offered to her intelligence, she found herself treating
his shy formality as the convention it was, a kind of make-believe which
she would politely and kindly play up to until he should happily forget
it and they could enter upon simpler relations. She had to play up to it
for a long time, but her love made her wonderfully clever and patient;
and of course the day came when she had her reward. Knowing him as she
did, she remembered the day and the difference it made.
It was toward the end of an afternoon in early April; the discoloured
snow still lay huddled in the bleaker fence corners. Wide puddles stood
along the roadsides, reflecting the twigs and branches of the naked
maples; last year’s leaves were thick and wet underfoot, and a soft damp
wind was blowing. Advena was on her way home and Finlay overtook her.
He passed her at first, with a hurried silent lifting of his hat; then
perhaps the deserted street gave a suggestion of unfriendliness to his
act, or some freshness in her voice stayed him. At all events, he
waited and joined her, with a word or two about their going in the
same direction; and they walked along together. He offered her his
companionship, but he had nothing to say; the silence in which they
pursued their way was no doubt to him just the embarrassing condition he
usually had to contend with. To her it seemed pregnant, auspicious; it
drew something from the low grey lights of the wet spring afternoon and
the unbound heart-lifting wind; she had a passionate prevision that the
steps they took together would lead somehow to freedom. They went on in
that strange bound way, and the day drew away from them till they turned
a sudden corner, when it lay all along the yellow sky across the river,
behind a fringe of winter woods, stayed in the moment of its retreat on
the edge of unvexed landscape. They stopped involuntarily to look, and
she saw a smile come up from some depth in him.
“Ah, well,” he said, as if to himself, “it’s something to be in a
country where the sun still goes down with a thought of the primaeval.”
“I think I prefer the sophistication of chimney-pots,” she replied.
“I’ve always longed to see a sunset in London, with the fog breaking
over Westminster.”
“Then you don’t care about them for themselves, sunsets?” he asked, with
the simplest absence of mind.
“I never yet could see the sun go down, But I was angry in my heart,”
she said, and this time he looked at her.
“How does it go on?” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know. Only those two lines stay with me. I feel it that
way, too. It’s the seal upon an act of violence, isn’t it, a sunset?
Something taken from us against our will. It’s a hateful reminder, in
the midst of our delightful volitions, of how arbitrary every condition
of life is.”
“The conditions of business are always arbitrary. Life is a business--we
have to work at ourselves till it is over. So much cut off and ended it
is,” he said, glancing at the sky again. “If space is the area of life
and time is its opportunity, there goes a measure of opportunity.”
“I wonder,” said Advena, “where it goes?”
“Into the void behind time?” he suggested, smiling straight at her.
“Into the texture of the future,” she answered, smiling back.
“We might bring it to bear very intelligently on the future, at any
rate,” he returned. “The world is wrapped in destiny, and but revolves
to roll it out.”
“I don’t remember that,” she said curiously.
“No you couldn’t,” he laughed outright. “I haven’t thought it good
enough to publish.”
“And it isn’t the sort of thing,” she ventured gaily, “you could put in
a sermon.”
“No, it isn’t.” They came to a corner of the street which led to Mr
Finlay’s boarding-house. It stretched narrowly to the north and there
was a good deal more snow on each side of it. They lingered together for
a moment talking, seizing the new joy in it which was simply the joy of
his sudden liberation with her consciously pushing away the moment of
parting; and Finlay’s eyes rested once again on the evening sky beyond
the river.
“I believe you are right and I am a moralizer,” he said. “There IS
pain over there. One thinks a sunset beautiful and impressive, but one
doesn’t look at it long.”
Then they separated, and he took the road to the north, which was still
snowbound, while she went on into the chilly yellow west, with the odd
sweet illusion that a summer day was dawning.