"No tight-shut doors, or close-drawn curtains keepThe swarming dreams out, when we sleep."
"No tight-shut doors, or close-drawn curtains keepThe swarming dreams out, when we sleep."
And the calm freshness and beauty of the morning almost irritated her. What did Nature care that she was unhappy, that she had painful puzzles to solve, and the very unpleasant inheritance from yesterday to dispose of? Still she was disposed to be reasonable, if others were. But Dr. Macrae was neither ready nor wishful to bring questions so important to a hurried and already inharmonious discussion. At that hour the affair between Lady Cramer and himself was more hopeful than settled, her affection being of a tentative rather than of an actual character. She was as yet experimenting with her own heart, and the Minister's heart was a necessary part of the trial, while his sublime confidence in her little coquetries amused her.
Breakfast was usually a very pleasant meal, but this morning all were reserved and silent. Dr. Macrae knew the value of a cool indifference, and he took refuge in that mood. Nothing interested him, he was lost in thought, he answered questions in monosyllables, and placed himself beyond conciliation in any form. Even Marion's remarks passed unheeded, though his heart failed him when she laid her small hand on his and asked softly,
"Are you sick, dear Father?"
"No," he answered, "I am in trouble."
"Can I help you, Father? What is it? Tell me, dear."
"I have brought up children, and they have rebelled against me." His voice was sad and low with the pathetic reproach, and he rose with the words and went to his study. Marion, with a troubled face, turned to her aunt.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"Come with me to my room, dear, and I will tell you what he means."
"I think I know what he means," she replied as soon as they were alone. "He is cross because I will not marry Allan Reid."
"Can you not manage it, Marion? He has set his heart on that marriage."
"I would rather die. You said you would stand by me."
"So I will."
"Why is Father so cruel to me?"
"Because he wants, I think, to marry Lady Cramer."
"Would you go away from Father in that case?"
"Would I not?"
"I should go with you, of course."
"That stands to reason."
"How do you know, Aunt? I mean, about Lady Cramer?"
"I had a sure word. I do not doubt it."
"Did my father tell you?"
"No. It is a new thing yet; only a mustard seed now, but it will grow to a great tree. It might have happened yesterday."
"Longer ago than that, Aunt, at least on Lady Cramer's side. When I was staying at the Hall she was cross because he did not come, and she wanted to send for him, but Richard would not let her."
"Why then?"
"Because he said the company they had would be an offense to the Minister, and the Minister would be unwelcome to the other guests. I must write and tell Richard your suspicion. It may affect his prospects."
"No doubt it will, but, if he could marry you at once, it might prevent the other marriage."
"I see not how nor why."
Then Mrs. Caird went pitilessly over the sensation the double marriage would make not only socially, but in the Church of the Disciples. She put into the mouths of its elders, deacons and members the foolish jibes and jokes they would be sure to make. The riddling and laughter and comedy sure to flow from the situation were vividly present to her own imagination, and she spared Marion none of the scorn and indignation they would evoke.
"Just think, Marion," she continued, "of your father having to thole all this vulgar tomfoolery—he, that never sees a flash of humor, however broad and plain it may be. Some men would just laugh, and let the jokes go by, but not so your father. They would be words in earnest to him, and every word would be a whip lash. He would fret and fume and worry himself into a brain fever, or he would fall into one of his miraculous passions with some laughing fool, and there would be tragedy and ruin to follow."
Marion did not speak, but she was white as the white dress she wore. Mrs. Caird looked at her and was not quite pleased with her attitude. She had expected tears or anger, and Marion gave way to neither, but her silence and pallor and a certain proud erectness of her figure spoke for her. At this hour she was startlingly like her father. She had put herself completely in his place, and was moved just as he would have been by her aunt's scornful picture of the Church of the Disciples in a jocular insurrection. So she looked like him. Quick as thought and feeling, the soul had photographed on the plastic body the very presentment of Ian Macrae. Her erect figure, her haughty manner, her scornful and indignant expression, and her large dark eyes, full of reproach, but quite tearless, were exactly the symptoms which he would have manifested if subjected to a like recital. For it is the expression of the human face, rather than its features, which makes its identity. The face enshrined in our hearts, which comes to us in dreams, when it has long moldered in the grave, is not the mechanical countenance of the loved one—it is its abstract idealization, its essence and life—it is the spirit of the face.
Mrs. Caird was astonished. It was a Marion she did not expect, but after a few moments' silence she said, "You can see your father's position, child?"
"Yes, I can see it and feel it, too. He would be distracted with the gossip and the disgrace of it."
"Well, then?"
"I must prevent it."
"Would you marry Allan Reid?"
"No."
"What will you do?"
"Stand by my father whatever befall, if he will let me."
"And Lord Cramer?"
"We can wait."
"But if you married at once, the onus of such a condition as I have pointed out would be on your father, and he would not face it for any living woman. That stands to reason."
"It is nineteen years since my mother died. He has given all those years to Donald and myself. He gave usyoufor a mother, but he never gave us a stepmother. He was good to us in that respect, and, though we may not have known it, he may have had many temptations to alter his life and he denied himself a wife for our sakes. I must stand by my father. If he wishes to marry Lady Cramer, I will only express satisfaction in his choice."
"But if he insists on your marrying Allan Reid first?"
"That I will not do. His hopes and desires are sacred to me. I shall expect him to give to mine the same regard. I am sure he will do so. Why do you not point out to him the results you have just made so plain to me?"
"Not I! I shall wash my hands of the whole affair. I wonder what kind of mortals you Macraes are! I was trying to prepare some plain road for you and your lover, and the thought of your father steps in between you and you make him a curtsey, and say, 'Your will be it, Father.'"
"Aunt, for a thousand years the father and the chief in my family have beenone. He has had the affection and the loyalty due to both relations. My father is still to metheMacrae, and I owe him and give him the first and best homage of my heart."
"Goodness! Gracious! I am very sorry, Miss Macrae, I have presumed to meddle in your affairs. I am only a poor Lowland Scot, ignorant of your famous clansmen. I have seen some of them, of course, in the Glasgow and Edinburgh barracks, but we called them 'kilties,' just plain kilties! Good soldiers, I believe, but——"
"Dear Aunt, you are making yourself angry for nothing at all. If you think over what I have said, you will allow I am right."
"I have something else to think over now, and I'll meddle no more with other people's love affairs. There now—go away and let me alone—I want no kissing and fleeching. You have cast me clean off—after nineteen years——" and the rest of her complaint was lost in passionate sobs and tears.
Then Marion was on her knees, crying with her, and the upcome and outcome was kisses and fond words and forgiveness. But do we forgive? We agree to put aside the fault and forget it; the real thing is, we agree to forget.
After this common family rite Mrs. Caird washed her face and went down to look after dinner, and as she did so she felt a little hardly toward Marion, and her thoughts were grieving and reminiscent. "Oh, the sleepless nights and anxious days I have spent for that dear lassie!" she sighed; "and, now she is a woman, her lover and her father fill her heart. I am just a nobody. Well, thank the Father of all, I gave my love freely. I did not sell it, I gave it, and the gift is my reward. It is more blessed to give than to receive."
Marion, at her sewing, had thoughts not much more satisfactory. "Aunt makes so much of things," she said to herself. "She is so romantic and simple-minded, and she goes over the score on both sides; everything is the very worst or the very best. I wish she would not talk so much about Richard, and be always planning this and that for us. Oh, I ought to be ashamed of such thoughts, and I am ashamed! Aunt Jessy has been my mother, God bless her!" She had a few moments of repentant reflection and resolutions, and then she continued them in a different way, saying almost audibly: "My father! Oh, Aunt knows my father is different. His blood flows through my heart. I am his child from head to feet. Aunt has often told me so. She ought, then, to know I would stand by my father, whomever he married."
They had forgiven each other—but had they forgotten?
"The sun and the bees,And the face of her love through the green,The shades of the trees,And the poppy heads glowing between:His heart asked no more,'Twas full as the hawthorn in May,And Life lay before,As the hours of a long summer day."
"The sun and the bees,And the face of her love through the green,The shades of the trees,And the poppy heads glowing between:His heart asked no more,'Twas full as the hawthorn in May,And Life lay before,As the hours of a long summer day."
For a week there was no change in the usual course and tenor of life at the Little House. Dr. Macrae read or wrote all morning, and after his lunch he dressed with care and rode over to the Hall, took a late dinner with Lady Cramer, and returned home about ten o'clock. He usually took a manuscript with him, and often spoke of reading it to Lady Cramer. Sometimes, also, he alluded to other company who were present, most frequently to the elderly Earl Travers, whom he described as an ultramontane Presbyterian. "He sits in a Free Church," he would say, with a slight tone of anger, "but his place is in one of the churches yet subject to Cæsar, not in a Free Church, which is a Law unto itself; its title deeds being only in the Registry above." Marion was proud of his enthusiasm, but Mrs. Caird told herself, privately, that Earl Travers had no doubt stimulated its character. For it was evident he disliked Travers on grounds more personal than the government of the Church.
Travers had been a close friend of the late Lord Cramer, and he took his place quietly but authoritatively at the side of his widow; indeed it appeared to Dr. Macrae that, on the very first night he met him at the Hall, Lady Cramer referred questions to the Earl that might have been left to his judgment. Even then, Dr. Macrae had an incipient jealousy of the Earl, who had just returned from a twelve months' cruise, rich in charming anecdotes of entertaining persons and events.
Really, Travers was much interested by the Minister and, hearing that he was going to preach in Cramer Church on the following Sabbath, he made an engagement at once with Lady Cramer to go with her to the service. She was delighted with the proposal and, with an intimate look at Dr. Macrae and a private handclasp as she passed him, vowed it would be the greatest pleasure the Earl could offer her. "I have always longed," she continued, "to hear one of those famous sermons that are said to thrill the largest congregations in Glasgow."
Certainly Dr. Macrae was flattered and much pleased. He had no fear of falling below any standard set up for him, yet he kept closely to himself all the previous Saturday, for he was gathering together his personality, so largely diffused by his late happiness, and flooding the sermon he was to deliver with streams of his own feeling and intellect. And, oh, how good he felt this exercise to be! For some hours he rose like a tower far above the restless sea of his passions. He put every doubt under his feet, he made himself forget he ever had a doubt.
The next morning was in itself sacramental, a Sabbath morning
"so cool, so calm, so bright;The bridal of the earth and sky,"
"so cool, so calm, so bright;The bridal of the earth and sky,"
filled the soul with peace, and everywhere there was a sense of rest. Even the cart horses knew it was Sunday, and were standing at the field gates, idle and happy. In the pale sunlight the moor stretched away to the mountains, and silent and serious little groups of people were crossing it from every side, but all making for one point—Cramer Church.
Dr. Macrae had been driven there very early and, during the hour before service, he was in the small vestry at the entrance of the church, and was, as he desired, left quite alone. In that hour he rose to the grandest altitude of his nature and, when the cessation of footsteps told him the congregation was gathered, he opened the vestry door. Then a very aged elder set wide the pulpit door, and Dr. Macrae—tall, stately, long-gowned and white-banded—walked with a serious deliberation unto that High Place from which he was to break the Bread of Life to the waiting worshipers before him. There was an irresistible power, both in him and going forth from him, that drew everyone present to himself. His burning, vehement spirit found its way in full force to his face, and it infected, nay, it went like a dart, to souls sleepy and careless in Zion.
To the Episcopalian the prayers are everything; to the Presbyterian it is the sermon; and there was a sigh of satisfaction when Dr. Macrae read with clear, powerful enunciation the last four verses of the sixth chapter of Hebrews, and boldly announced that he would speak "first ofGod the Chooser, then ofGod the Slain, then ofGod the Comforter."
From these great seminal truths he reasoned of righteousness and judgment to come with a penetrative, judicial power; but he quickly passed this stage and entered into their enforcement with an overwhelming insistence. Something was to bedonerather than explained. The sermon was almost fiercely theological, but through it all there was that wonderfully inspired look, that diviner mind, that "little more" which declares the Superman to be in control.
Two remarks showed something of the personal struggle that he was going through. Speaking of the doubting spirit prevalent in the whole religious world, he said: "You will find in the words of my text the remedy: that, by two immutable things in which it was impossible for God to lie, we might have a strong consolation who have fled for refuge to lay hold upon the hope set before us." And, again, very pointedly, he asked: "When we have done wrong, how shall we remedy the wrong? I will tell you. We must work day and night, as men work on a railway when the bridge is broken down. For all traffic between our souls and heaven will be interrupted until we get this ruin—this reason for God's withdrawal—out of the way."
The last sentences of his sermon were given to defending the creed of his country, and the Minister who does this clasps the heart of his people to him. He preached an hour and the time was as ten minutes. No one moved until he closed the Book and, with a glowing face and a joyful voice, gave the benediction.
He looked ten years younger than he did when entering the pulpit. He appeared to be much taller and of a larger bulk, and his face shone and his eyes glowed with more than mortal light. For, at that hour of superman control, the virtue of the spiritual erected and informed the physical. The congregation longed to speak to him and to touch his hand, but he walked through the gazing throng with uplifted face and towering form, silent and enwrapt with his own power and eloquence, and, going into the little vestry to unrobe, remained there until the Earl and Lady Cramer had departed, and only a few humble and fervent worshipers lingered thoughtfully among the graves in the churchyard. To these he spoke, and they looked into his gracious, handsome face, touched almost reverently the hand he offered and to their dying day talked of him as of a man inspired and miraculous, a true Preacher of His Word.
At his own door Marion met him with a kiss, a thing so unusual that it had a kind of solemnity in it. "My good, wonderful father!" she whispered, "there is no man can preach like you!" His heart beat pleasantly to her love and admiration, and, though Mrs. Caird only looked at him as he took his place at the table, he was as well satisfied as he had been with Marion's greeting. He could see that she had been weeping. The light of prayer was on her face, and from the whole household he heard the silent psalm of thanksgiving.
That day he remained at home, and on Monday he did the same. He thought he was honestly "working day and night as men work on a railway when the bridge is broken." Something had gone wrong between God and his soul. The Power with the multitude which had been given him he still retained, but that wonderful faculty within us which feels after and finds the Divinity did not respond to his call. Yet he knew well that we have our being in God, that God's ear lies close to our lips, that it is always listening, that we sigh into it, even as we sleep and dream. Why did not God give him again the personal joy of His salvation? He walked hour after hour all Monday up and down his study, examining and defending himself; for this attitude is almost certainly our first one when we come penitently to God. Yet Dr. Macrae knew well that only with blinding tears and breaking heart can the sinner go to His Maker and plead: "Cast me not away from Thy Presence, take not thy Holy Spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of Thy Salvation."
Tuesday he was physically weary and when he opened the book he was considering, Hugh Miller's "Red Stone," he could not read it. The words passed before his eyes, but his mind refused to notice them, and he threw down the volume and resigned himself to religious reverie. His eyes were on his closed Bible, and he was recalling in a regretful mood the power and splendor of its promises and assurances. He was "feeling after God, if haply he might find Him," trying to call up arguments for his existence, his personality, His loving and constant interflow into the affairs of men. But he had lost the habit of Faith, and was continually finding himself face to face with the incomprehensible problems which Science may propound but can never answer: Whence come we? Whither do we go? Why was man created? Why does he continue to exist? What has become of the vast multitudes of the dead? What will become of the vaster multitudes that may yet tread the earth?
But ever when he reached the outermost rim of this useless thought, these awful and sacred questions still called to his soul for an answer. Indeed, he felt acutely that he had not gained from Science any intelligible religious system; nor yet any belief which he could profess, or which he could defend from an assailant. He could find in it nothing that a man could have recourse to in the hour of trouble, or the day of death; and, when Mrs. Caird came into his study about the noon hour, he felt compelled to speak to her. With a quick, nervous motion he laid his hand upon some books at his side and complained wearily:
"All they say about God is so terribly inadequate, Jessy."
"Of course it is inadequate," she answered. "When men know nothing, how can they teach, especially about Him,
... 'Who, though vast and strangeWhen withintellectwe gaze,Yet close to the heart steals inIn a thousand tender ways.'"
... 'Who, though vast and strangeWhen withintellectwe gaze,Yet close to the heart steals inIn a thousand tender ways.'"
"O my dear sister, I am so miserable!"
"My dear Ian, when we withdraw ourselves from that circle within which the Bible is a definite authority, we must be miserable."
"Why?"
"We have then only a negative religion, and pray what is there between us and the next lower down negation? And I assure you it would become easy to repeat this descending movement again and again. Indeed, there could be no reason for making a stand at any point, until——"
"Until?"
"The end!"
"Then?"
"There might come the dread of sliding away toward the brink—and over the brink—of the precipice."
"Then what help is there for a man who has taken this road ignorantly and innocently?"
And Jessy, with the light and joy of perfect assurance on her face, answered, "There is the breadth, the depth, the boundless length, the inaccessible height of Christ's love, which is the love of God."
Ian did not answer immediately and, Mrs. Caird, walking to the window, saw the Cramer carriage at the gate.
"Lady Cramer is coming," she said. "I will go and meet her."
Then Ian saw Lady Cramer fluttering up the garden walk, a lovely vision in pink muslin and white lace, carrying a dainty basket of ripe apricots in her hand. He thought he had not been looking for her visit, but Mrs. Caird could have told him a different story. She knew by the care bestowed on his morning toilet that he was expecting her, but she was a considerate woman and made an excuse to leave them alone a few minutes.
"I have come for Marion," she said. "I am going to do a little shopping, and she has such good taste—and I thought you would like the apricots—I expected you yesterday—I looked for you even Sunday. You did not come—I was unhappy at your neglect."
He stood gravely in front of her, looking down at her pretty, pleading face, her beautiful hair, her garments of rose and white. He did not speak. He was trying to recall the words he had resolved to say to her, but, when she lifted her eyes, they hastened out of his memory; and when she had laid her hand on his and asked, "Have I grieved you, my dear Ian? Have you forgotten that you loved me?"
"My God, Ada!" he cried in a low, passionate voice, "My God! I love you better than my own soul."
"You will dine with me this evening?"
"This evening, yes, yes, I will come."
"If you have any scruples—if you do not wish—if——"
"Oh, you know well, Ada, that I am dying to come to you, to taste again the sweetness of your embrace, to know the miraculous joy of your kiss. You know, Ada, that you hold my heart in your small, open hands."
"Ian, you are the greatest man in Scotland," she answered. "The Earl says you have the eloquence of Apollo and the close reasoning of Paul."
"And you, Ada?"
"I have wanted to be good, Ian, ever since Sunday. Help me, dear one. I am so weak and foolish."
Then he took her in his arms and kissed his answer on her lips; and, in a few moments, Mrs. Caird and Marion came laughing into the room. And it is needless to say that in the evening Dr. Macrae took dinner as usual with Lady Cramer. The hours they were together were really what Dr. Macrae said they were, the happiest hours in all his life.
They were indeed so mutually happy that Lady Cramer began this night to take herself seriously to task after them. She dismissed her maid early, saying, "I am sleepy," but she did not go to sleep. She wrapped herself in a down coverlet and took an easy chair by an open window. The secret silence of the night was what she wanted. It was the fifth day of the moon, and its crescent moved with a melancholy air in the western heavens, while the exquisite perfume of the double velvet rose scented the cool air far and near. This rose is forgotten now, but then its leaves were kept among a lady's clothing, and imparted to it an ethereal fragrance far beyond the art of the perfumer. It was Lady Cramer's first reflection.
"The roses are in perfection," she thought, "the leaves must be gathered to-morrow. They give my dresses the only scent I can endure. Ian always notices it. He says it is so delicate and delicious that too much of it would make him faint with pleasure.Heigho!I have had a few hours that I dare not repeat. I am so susceptible—so foolish. This affair must be stopped. I will not allow it to go further. I dare not. I should become a Minister's wife if I did. Could I think of that? Decidedly not. I love him, yes. I love him, but I cannot sacrifice my life to make his life sweeter. Should I make it sweeter? I am sure I would not. Religion is very well on a Sunday morning, nice and ladylike, and I generally enjoy it; but every day in your life is too much. I endured eight years with an old noble that I might get entry into his caste. I cannot throw that privilege away for love. No, I must marry a duke—good-bye, my handsome Ian! We have had some happy hours together—but it is now time to part."
She sat discussing this subject with what she called her "heart" till long after midnight; then the still, sweet atmosphere was invaded by the sudden impetuous trample of a ghostly wind. The moon had set, and the sky was bending darkly over a darker world.
"Those clouds terrify me," she whispered. "They seem to look angrily at me. I shall have bad dreams if I do not go to bed"—and as she did so she nervously continued her soliloquy. "I dare say this is the hour that liberates ghosts; such a wind would open all the old doors in this old house, and the old joys and sorrows would come out. It is not cannie. I will sleep now, and to-morrow—I will get ready for London."
Dr. Macrae had lingered long on the moor. He had refused the carriage, feeling that physical motion was the imperative craving of the hour. But he was in such a miraculous state of rapture that his walking was not walking; he trod upon the air, the earth was buoyant under his feet. He knew not, he asked not, whether he was in the body or out of the body. The exquisite Adalaide loved him. She had promised to be his wife. With a little cry of joy he recalled that ecstatic moment when she had kissed on his lips the one little word which made all things sure.
"This is love!" he cried joyfully, lifting his face to the heavens, "and I have blamed and punished those who have fallen through love! O man foolish and ignorant of the great temptation!"
He did not sleep. He had neither the wish to sleep nor the need of it. Never in all his life had he been so keenly alive, so stubbornly awake. With a face of rapt expectancy he recalled the looks and words and motions of Adalaide. She had said they would have a year's honeymoon among the storied cities and churches of the Mediterranean, and he began to consider what this proposal meant. Certainly it implied his resignation from the pulpit of the Church of the Disciples. Could he bear that? Would he like to sit and listen to other men preaching the Word, while he sat silent? On the previous Sabbath he had shown forth that irresistible ordination which comes through the call and Hand of God. Could he deny this great honor and stand like a dumb dog in the courts of the Lord?
Was love indeed the greatest thing in the world? He was too honest a thinker to admit this fallacy. In his own congregation he had seen love set aside for duty, for gold, for power, and he knew young men and women who had put love behind them in order to remain with helpless parents and succor them. They had received from their fellow creatures no particular praise nor indemnity, they had quietly resigned love for the nobler virtue of duty. Women without number were constantly making this sacrifice, and should he resign the helpfulness and honor of his God-given office to this pretender of supreme earthly power? Positively he refused to entertain for a moment the possibility of casting away the work God had given him to do.
When he came to this decision the day was sullenly breaking, and he heard his sister-in-law's voice and the tinkle of the breakfast china. Then came the call for coffee and he said: "It is just what I wanted, Jessy. Are we not earlier than usual?"
"Yes," she answered, "but I knew you were awake, and thought your coffee would be welcome."
"It is. Thank you, Jessy"; and the words were said so pleasantly she met them with a smile and, as he seemed wishful to talk, she responded readily to his desire.
"Where is Marion?" he asked.
"In the Land of Sleep and Dreams, wherever that is."
"Nobody knows that, Jessy. There is so much we do not know, and never can know, that striving for Truth is discouraging."
"Yes, but when we cease striving for Truth we begin striving for ourselves."
"You reason well, Jessy. Have you studied logic?"
"What would a woman want with the mere faculty of logic? It belongs to lawyers and men educated in Edinburgh. I can draw an inference from anything reasonable, but logic is beyond the straight-forwardness of women and, also, the will of genius. When you were preaching last Sunday your words were arrows of the Almighty, they did not fly according to the rules of logic; if they had would they have found the hearts of the people? I think not. When are we going back to Glasgow, Ian? I am wearying for it all day long and, sitting alone at night, I would rather hear the melancholy human noises of the street than the song of the nightingale."
"For two more Sabbaths, Jessy, there is a minister in my place. After that we will go home."
"What kind of a minister?"
"A Free Church minister."
"That stands to reason and goes without saying. I mean is he sure on Moses and reverent with the Gospels? Is he a believer or a doubter? That is what I mean."
"Who can tell? If a good man doubts, he does not babble his doubts from the pulpit."
"What are you doing now, Ian?"
"I am bringing dogmas to Scripture and trying to make Scripture agree with them. People read too much now. When I was a lad, Joseph Milner's 'Church History,' and Newton on the 'Prophecies' were in every house. They were good books, fragrant with home piety, and with their Bible were all men and women wanted."
"And now it is even fashionable to have a book against the Bible lying on the parlor table. It is not a good change, Ian."
"The change is the spirit of our era, Jessy, but God is directing it. We can do nothing. We are only clay in the hands of the potter."
"Even so, but the potter does not make vessels for the express purpose of breaking them, and I am sure it is wrong to say, 'We can do nothing.' Our influence, be it good or bad, has had a commencement, and it will never have an end. I heard Dr. Wardlaw say that, and, also, that what is done is done, and it will work with the working universe, openly or secretly, forever. When Jethro, the Midianitish priest and grazier, hired an Hebrew outlaw as his herdsman, he doubtless thought little of the circumstance; but Moses still lives, and busies himself in the daily business of all nations. Your work has been set you, Ian; hold fast your faith in it, and do not dare to desert it."
"I was thinking your thought an hour ago, Jessy. My will is to finish the work given me to do. If I allowed my will to be overpowered by any circumstance, I should be the sport of Fate. I should indeed be thenNot Elect." With these words he rose, straight and strong, full of confidence in his own will to do right and, with an encouraging smile to Jessy, he went to his study.
It was a chill, dull day without sunshine, but Dr. Macrae carried his own sunshine. The morning would get over, and Ada would be sure to send a close carriage for him in the afternoon. Then he would bring to a clear understanding the fact that marriage could not separate him from his spiritual work. He was dressed and waiting long before he could reasonably expect the carriage, but at three o'clock it had not arrived, and he was so wretched he resolved to take the Victoria and drive over to the Hall. As this intention was forming in his mind a servant from Cramer brought him a letter. He opened it with anxious haste, and read the following lines:
Dear, dear Ian—I received this morning a most astonishing and peremptory letter from my lawyer, directing me to come to London by the next train. It is a purely business letter, dear, but you know we cannot neglect business, especially as our contemplated year's travel will draw deeply on our resources. I shall not forget you; that would be impossible! I shall be at the railway station at four o'clock; be sure to meet me there. It would be dreadful not to bid you good-bye.Your Ada.
Dear, dear Ian—I received this morning a most astonishing and peremptory letter from my lawyer, directing me to come to London by the next train. It is a purely business letter, dear, but you know we cannot neglect business, especially as our contemplated year's travel will draw deeply on our resources. I shall not forget you; that would be impossible! I shall be at the railway station at four o'clock; be sure to meet me there. It would be dreadful not to bid you good-bye.
Your Ada.
Four o'clock! It was then a quarter after three; there was barely time to reach the station, but half-a-crown to the driver gave him five minutes in which to see his beautiful mistress in her new winter gown of dark blue broadcloth, trimmed with sable fur. The small blue and brown toque above her brown, braided hair gave her quite a new look. She was so chic, so radiant, so loving. And, in some of the occult ways known to women, she managed in those few minutes to make him both happy and hopeful. Then the guard held open the door of her carriage, she was in the train, the door was shut, the cry of "All right" ran along the moving line and, with a heart feeling empty and forlorn, he returned to the Little House.
"Lady Cramer has gone to London," he said to Mrs. Caird, and she looked into her brother-in-law's face and understood.
There was nothing now for him but reading, and he took up the books waiting for him and tried to forget in Scientific Religion the pitiless aching and longing of love; and he was glad, also, that the minister who had been filling the pulpit of the Church of the Disciples during his month's rest proposed to come to Cramer and stay part of the last week with him. He hoped they might be able to talk over together some of the startling religious ideas he was then reading and, perhaps, receive help from his more advanced age and wider experience.
Mrs. Caird doubted it as soon as she saw the man. He had a handsome physical appearance with such drawbacks as attend a long course of self-indulgence. His stoutness reduced his height, he had become slightly bald, and he wore glasses; so Dr. Macrae's slim, straight figure, his fine eyes and hair, and his good, healthy coloring, moved the brother cleric to a moment's envy.
"I used to be as natty and bright as you, Macrae," he said, "but age, sir, age—the years tell on us."
Dr. Macrae met him at the railway station with the Victoria, and he admired the turnout very much. "That is a fine machine," he remarked; "it must have cost you a pretty penny."
"It is not mine," answered Dr. Macrae. "It belongs to Lady Cramer. I have, by her kindness, the use of it this summer."
"What an unusual kindness!"
"Also of her dower house, with all its beautiful furnishings. Very little you will see in it belongs to me."
"I have never fallen on such luck. My church is large, but poor—poor. There are a few wealthy families—but—but they do not lift themselves above the ordinaries of collection—the plate and the printed lists."
"Yes."
"And, even so, I generally think scorn of their donations. I suppose you are on a very easy footing with Lady Cramer—friendly, I mean."
"Yes, we are good friends."
He was in a fit of admiration with everything he saw, the antique homeliness of the parlors, the lavender on the window sills, the Worcester china on the table. He looked critically at the latter, and said with a knowing air, "It belongs to the best period, having the square mark on it." The light shone on olives and grapes, on cut glass and silver, and specially on a claret jug of Worcester, with its exotic birds, its lasting gold, and its scale-blue ground like sapphire. He had the artistic temperament, and these beautiful things appealed to him in a way that astonished Dr. Macrae, whose temperament was of spiritual mold, and had not been destitute of even ascetic tendencies in his youth.
He had, therefore, little sympathy with his guest's enthusiasms; indeed, it rather pleased him to strip himself bare of all the beauty around him. "Not one of these lovely things is mine," he said. "I should not know what to do with them. I would rather have a few deal shelves full of good books."
"You don't know yourself, Macrae," was the answer. "The possession of artistic beauty develops the taste for it. When you are rich——"
"I shall never be rich."
"You have a fine income."
"I save nothing from it; a man who tries to save both his money and his soul has a task too hard for me to manage."
It must be acknowledged that Mrs. Caird took a dislike to the man, and she made Dr. Macrae feel that it was important he and his visitor should go to Glasgow on Thursday. "Take him to Bath Street," she said. "Maggie will provide for you; besides, I am sending Kitty down to-morrow, and he will be a hindrance to me here."
Wednesday was very wet and the two ministers had perforce to remain in the house, and in one of the exigencies of their prolonged conversations Dr. Macrae unfortunately referred to the pile of scientific religious books lying on his table. Then his visitor rose and looked at them.
"Yes," he said with a great sigh, "we are very scientific to-day, with our 'tendencies' and 'streams of influence' and our various 'thought movements.' They are all purely material."
"They cannot be that," replied Dr. Macrae, impetuously. "Streams of influence imply spiritual beings, and movements of thought must come from thinkers."
"Agreed," was the reply, "but you cannot call 'a stream of tendency,' or 'a power that makes for righteousness,' God. No, sir, you cannot, without striking at the very foundation of Theism. The next step would be to deny the supernatural guidance of the universe and of life. And the next? What would it be?"
"I know not. Such questions are mere spiritual curiosity. Keep your thumb down on them."
"I will tell you. The morality based on the supernatural would fail, and, unless a man had found a scheme of scientific morality based on the natural instead of the supernatural, he would be wrecked on the rock of his passions. The question arises, then—is there such a scheme?"
"You must answer your own question, Dr. Scott. As far as I can see, if there is in scientific philosophy a rule of life that can take the place of the Bible and Christianity, it must be able to guide the ignorant and humble, and restrain and comfort men. Philosophy failed Cicero at the hour of trial, and who would offer to the mourner, or the outcast, a chapter of scientific philosophy? It would be feeding hunger on straw."
"See here, Macrae, you are going further than I have any desire to follow you. I am a licensed preacher of the Scotch Church. My articles stipulate that I shall preach the doctrines of Christianity as elucidated by the creed of John Calvin. That is the extent of my obligation—the full extent of it."
"No."
"Yes. I chose the profession of Divinity, as my brother chose that of the Law. Both are recognized means of business. I accepted Divinity as such. I agreed to preach Calvinism to those who chose to come to my church—to my place of business, really—and listen to me."
"Do you believe what you preach?"
"That is another question. Answer it yourself, Macrae. I can only say that, in preparing for the profession of Divinity at St. Andrews Divinity Hall, it was understood I would preach Calvinism. There was no specification concerning my belief or non-belief in it. I was licensed to be a preacher of Calvinism, and I have never preached anything else. My brother has the authority of the courts to be a pleader for criminals. He pleads well for them, and he does not much care whether they are guilty or innocent. You see, Macrae, this preaching is a professional business. Men are qualified for it, as men are qualified for law or medicine. They serve—just as Divinity does—rich and poor, good and bad. I do not know but what they are as reputable and useful 'divines' as we are."
"Supposing you were a sceptic—as many now are—would you go on preaching?"
"Unquestionably. Pray, why not? What I believe is between my Maker and myself. My congregation have nothing to do with it. My belief or non-belief would not injure or improve my sermons. I should in either case preach a good Calvinistic sermon; that is what I qualified myself for. It is my business. If you have been in London you have seen in the great thoroughfares men in scarlet blouses, whose business it is to direct strangers to the places they wish to find. Nobody asks them about their personal religion. If they are good guides to those seeking certain places, they fulfil their duty. I am in just such a position. So are you."
"If I thought so, I would leave it at once."
"If you had a wife and five children you would put their comfort before your own feelings. That stands to reason. All this talk about the higher criticism is like the sickly talk of the higher civilization; it is anemia in some form or other. Macrae, we have our duty to the Church. We are pledged and sworn to that. It is as much the work given us to do as plowing and sowing are the farmer's work."
"But the Truth—the Truth, Doctor!"
"What is Truth, Macrae? Who knows? The Truth of yesterday is the error of to-day."
"Then, it never was Truth, for Truth is unaffected by time, and remains a witness of the past, the present, and the future."
Then the visiting cleric struck the table heavily with his closed hand and, with a fierce intensity, whispered,
"O Man! Man! what if all this religion should be a dream!"
And Dr. Macrae answered, "Then, where is the Reality?"
Both men were silent, but in the eyes of both there was that look which is only seen in the eyes of men who are defrauding their own souls.
In a few moments there was the tinkle of a small silver bell, and Dr. Macrae said, "Tea is ready," and they rose together. Passing the parlor they heard Marion trying a new song, and they loitered a moment or two and listened, as very slowly and softly she asked:
"What says thy song, thou joyous thrush,Up in the walnut tree?""I love my Love, because I knowMy Love loves me."
"What says thy song, thou joyous thrush,Up in the walnut tree?""I love my Love, because I knowMy Love loves me."
A little sadly they entered the parlor, but the blazing fire threw warm gleams on the handsomely set table; and the tempting odors of young hyson, fresh bread, and a rook pie filled the room. Involuntarily everyone smiled and sat down gladly to the dainty, delicate food before them; and Dr. Macrae said to his friend:
"Life is full of emotions. Such a variety of them, too!"
"And all good—or, at least, pretty much so. A rook pie! That is a luxury indeed! I suppose there is a rookery at Cramer."
"A very ancient and a very large one," answered Dr. Macrae, and he recognized in his own voice and manner that slight sense of proprietorship which flavors a coming good. He was ashamed of it, and made some foolish remark about the rooks being a present. "The birds are not in the market," he said, "and, if they were, a poor minister could not buy them."
"You are a fortunate man. The country is full of blessings. I wish I lived in the country. You must like it, Macrae."
"I am ofTouchstone'sopinion—in respect that it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but, in respect that it is not in the city, it is tedious. That reminds me, we shall leave for the city early in the morning."
"Not too early, I hope?"
"About ten o'clock."
"That will do very well."
The men were up early, but Mrs. Caird saw that Ian had spent a sleepless night. Indeed, his conversations with Dr. Scott had raised many serious questions in his mind. Was it possible that this doubt of God's existence—of the inspiration of the Bible—of the dogma of eternal punishment and other vital points of Christian belief was not an uncommon condition of the ministerial mind, not only in Calvinistic churches but throughout the creeds of Christendom?
"There is no absolute Faith in any Protestant Church, no matter how its creed is written," Dr. Scott had said, with an air of knowledge and certainty; adding, "Belief is an individual thing, Macrae, every man must discover what is true in his own case."
"What is the most general point of unbelief among ministers?" asked Ian, and Dr. Scott, after a moment's reflection, answered, "I think, perhaps, the divinity of Jesus Christ." At these words Mrs. Caird flushed angrily, and looked at Ian. She expected him to deny this accusation, but he only cast down his eyes and remained silent. Then, she said, with great feeling, "Constance Norden has well described the religion of such men as