“Just ventured to look in for a single minute, Mr. Rutherford, at the
close of this eventful day, to say how thankful we all are that you
were so wonderfully sustained. But you are busy--making notes for next
Sabbath, perhaps--and I must not interrupt you. We must keep ourselves
open to the light; in my small way I find there are times when the
thoughts just drop upon one. If we were more lifted above the world they
would come oftener, far oftener.”
A very “sleekit” personage indeed, as they say in Scotland, with a suave
manner, a sickly voice, and ways so childish that simple people thought
him almost silly; but those who happened to have had deals with him
in business formed quite another opinion, and expressed it in language
bordering on the libellous.
“Will you be seated?” Rutherford laid aside a letter beginning “Dearest
Magdalen,” and telling how it had fared with him on his first Sunday
in St Bede's, Glasgow, W., a kirk which contained many rich people and
thought not a little of itself. “You have a meeting on Sunday evening, I
think you said. I hope it was successful.”
“There was blessing to-night, I am sure. I felt the power myself. Lord
Dunderhead was passing through Glasgow and gave the address. It was
on 'The Badgers' Skins* of the Tabernacle, and was very helpful. And
afterward we had a delightful little 'sing.*' You know his lordship?”
“No, I never saw him,” said Rutherford shortly, with a Scot's democratic
prejudice against religious snobbery, forgetting that people who will
not listen to a reasoned discourse from a clergyman will crowd to the
simplest utterance of a lord.
“You will allow me to introduce you on Tuesday evening; you got Mrs.
Thompson's card. I hope we may have a profitable gathering. Captain
Footyl, the hussar evangelist, will also be present--a truly delightful
and devoted young man.” Rutherford had not forgotten the card--