Kitabı oku: «Playing With Fire», sayfa 11

CHAPTER IX
WHEN WILL THE NIGHT BE PAST?

 
"Alas! God Christ – along the weary lands,
What lone invisible Calvaries are set,
What drooping brows with dews of anguish wet,
What faint outspreading of unwilling hands,
Bound to a viewless cross with viewless bands.
While at the darkest hour what ghosts are met
Of ancient pain and bitter fond regret,
Till the new-risen spirit understands."
 

Doctor Macrae left London immediately after this interview, but he did not at once return to Glasgow. He spent two days at Oxford and nearly a week in the manufacturing towns of Yorkshire, the rest of his leisure in the historic city of Newcastle. He was interested in what he saw, but not comforted by it. For he was well aware that all his hopes had been stripped to the nakedness of a dream. The week days trailed on the ground and the Sabbaths made no effort to rise to the height of their birth. For the spiritual center of his being had never yet been in touch with the spiritual center in the universe, and all philosophies and all creeds must come back to this sympathetic understanding between the Comforter and the Comforted, or they come to nothing.

Many years ago he had analyzed prayer by his creed, and felt that it had nothing to do with troubles so personal and selfish as his love or his hatred. For some wise purpose this discipline of wasted love had been given him, and his duty was to bear his loss as manfully as he could. There had once been a time when he would even have rejoiced to give up any personal happiness if he thought that by doing so he was learning a God-sent lesson. He could not do that now. He had been too long looking into the Deity instead of looking up to Him. He had compelled himself to question and to qualify until he knew not how to believe nor yet what to believe. Poor soul! He thought prayer could be reasoned about! Prayer, which is an unrevealed transaction, beyond the region of the stars!

At length, the time of his absence from duty being completed, he took a train for Glasgow, arriving there early in the evening. It was raining hard, it was dark, and the points of gas light only rendered the darkness visible. The streets were crowded with men and women in dripping coats, jostling each other with dripping umbrellas as they hurried home after their day's work.

In the quiet space of Bath Street the driver of his cab dropped his whip and stopped in order to regain it; and in those moments Dr. Macrae noticed a wretched looking man trying to get a few pennies by singing "The Land of Our Birth." His voice was full of pain and tears, and Macrae called him and put a shilling in his hand. The beggar's look of amazement and gratitude was wonderful. He raised the coin as he took it, and cried out, "O God!" and the look and the words fell on Macrae's heart like a soft shower on a parched land. They called up one of those tender smiles quite possible, and even natural, to his face, though far too seldom seen there. In the light of this smile he reached his home, and the next moment the door opened and Marion and Mrs. Caird stood waiting with outstretched hands to greet him.

He fell readily into their happy mood, and sat down between them to the excellent tea waiting for him. And the blessing of the shilling was on him, and he talked cheerfully of all that he had seen, but added as he took his large easy-chair on the hearthrug,

"East or West, Home is Best."

Alas! this blessed mood did not last. In a few days he was again brooding in a hell of his own making. He could not rest his heart on any affection. Lady Cramer had deceived him, Donald had deserted him, Marion was restlessly waiting for her lover's return. Then she also would go. And Jessy Caird's heart was with Donald. He thought of these things until he felt himself to be a very lonely, desolate man; for the heart is like a vine, it withers and dies if it has nothing to embrace.

In a deep and overwhelming sense he knew that to obey or to disobey duty was to say "yes" or "no" to God, but what was his duty? He told himself that if he could only see the way of duty clear he would take it, however unpleasant or difficult it might be. Yes, he was sure of that. But what was his duty? He tried to find out by every logical method known to him, and every method pointed out some flaw in every other method.

One morning, at the end of January, Dr. Macrae received a batch of London newspapers. They were brought to the breakfast table, and he looked at their number and wondered. He did not seem to understand what they portended, but Mrs. Caird did. Some womanly instinct told her what information they brought, and when Macrae did not come to the dinner table she said softly to Marion, "Lady Cramer is married. I wonder how he will bear it."

In the middle of the afternoon she took some coffee into the Minister's study, and at his request sat down beside him. "Stay an hour with me, Jessy," he said. "I am in trouble."

"I know, Ian."

"She is married."

Jessy nodded slightly, and said: "I know. My dear Ian, you were but a little child in the hands of Adalaide Cramer. Very likely she thought she loved you."

"I think she did love me."

"Whom has she married?"

"The Duke of Rotherham."

"She had a great temptation, but no doubt she suffered in giving you up, even for a dukedom."

"She ought to suffer. I wish her to suffer."

"Then you no longer love her?"

"Loving is now out of the question, but I had, I thought, a great love for her."

"Had!"

"Yes. I loved Ada until she contemplated making me a partner with her in the sin of deceiving the man who was then – almost – her husband. After that I had no hesitation in resigning her. I would not remain in London – she was very lovable – I might – I think not – but I might – "

"You acted as an honorable man must have done. Danger is an unknown quantity until you meet it face to face, and in this danger you were like a swimmer that only tips the tangles and does not know the depth of the water below them. I am glad you had the courage to leave her. Let her be dismissed even from your thoughts."

"How should I dare to think of her after those London papers? The Decalogue and Christ's words concerning its seventh law still stand with me as a finality. I no longer love her. I am not even angry with her. She was just the reef on which my life went down. An hour ago I buried her."

"Your life has not gone down. It ought to be more rich and buoyant for this very experience. It will be."

"Perhaps. Yet all life's pleasant things have suffered the same change that Autumn works on the flowery braes of Spring, and I feel,

 
'My days are as the grass,
Swiftly my seasons pass,
And like the flower of the field I fade.'"
 

Jessy waited a moment or two, and then replied, "I think, Ian, you might be just and honorable to the poet. Why do you cut the verse in two? I will give you the other three lines, as you seem to have forgotten them:

 
'O Soul, dost thou not see
The Wise have likened thee
To the most living creature that is made?'"
 

"Living creature?"

"Yes, in the Spring does the grass tarry for any man's help? It comes up without tool, or seed, or labor. In the garden, the field, the roadside, it comes, fresh and strong and heavenly green. Its withered blades have a new life. Likewise certain portions of our lives change or pass away, but something better for our coming years is given us."

"My dear Jessy, how good are your words. Is there any poetry you do not know?"

"Men and women who have souls meet each other in good poetry. I have met many a sweet soul there."

"I must tell you, Jessy, that it is not the Duchess of Rotherham but the Church of the Disciples that is now troubling me. I dread every Sabbath Day before me. I feel as if I could not – could not preach."

"Do you think a woman's 'no' should change your life and your life's work?"

"It might do so."

"It cannot. If there is no place open to a man but a pulpit, it is clear God means him to preach – whether he wants to or not. I think little of the men who are feared for the day they never saw. Bode good and you will get good. That's a fact, Ian.

"Jessy, I seem to have lost everything in one bad year – my love, my children, my work, my friends. All are changed or gone. I feel poor. Once I was rich, and knew it not."

"You are not poor, Ian. The poor are those who have never lost anything. You are not doing badly even now, and you are learning on very easy terms the grand habit of doing without."

"I am very miserable, Jessy, I know that."

"You are deserving misery badly, or you would hardly punish yourself. God is giving you blessings on every hand, and you do not even thank Him for them."

"Jessy Caird!"

"I'm right, quite right. He took the great temptation of a heartless beautiful woman out of your way. You could have thrown love and honor and your very soul on that water, and got nothing back – through all the years of your life – but sorrow and shame. Well, well, it is little gratitude we give either God or angel for the escapes they help us to make. How often have we been in the net of some adverse circumstances, and suddenly and quietly the net is broken and we escape. Then we are as likely to grumble as to rejoice."

"If it wasn't for the preaching – "

"Ay, it is always 'something' if it is not 'somebody' that is to blame. Not ourselves, of course! What do you think of making the best of what you have, Ian? There was a wonderful letter from Donald yesterday. Ask Marion about it."

"I will take a walk as far as the cathedral. There is a painted window in the crypt that is always delightful to me."

"A painted window?"

"Yes – representing Christ as a youth reading the Book of the Law."

"You are a queer man, Ian Macrae. Your ideal of Christ has a papistical leaning."

"Nothing of the kind, Jessy. Nothing!"

"The Roman idea is to represent the Redeemer of the World just a baby in the Virgin's arms, or he is the victim on the Cross, or the dead God being prepared for burial. How many paintings do you know representing Christ as the Lord of Life and Death – the co-equal of the God Everlasting? Indeed, if you do happen to find a painting of Christ as a man among men, he is sure to be the least handsome and godlike of all those surrounding him. And you can find comfort in the figure of a boy reading the Book of the Law!"

"Do you know the window?"

"I do. The last time I saw it, Donald was with me. He liked it well. There was a long letter from Donald yesterday."

"I will now dress and take a walk."

"It is raining hard."

"Then I will only go as far as Blackie's, and look over his new books. That is always interesting."

"Don't go out, Ian. Sit with Marion. She has a letter she wants to read to you."

"Jessy, I am seeking the Truth. The search impels me – I cannot rest – I can do nothing else but seek it – not for my life!"

"Do you expect to find it in Blackie's bookshop?"

"I know not where to find it."

"It is lying there – at your right hand."

He glanced down at his right hand, and saw the familiar old Bible of his college days. The place-keeping ribbon was lying outside its pages, and he lifted the Book and replaced the ribbon; then, with a feeling of sorrowful tenderness, laid it, on a shelf of his bookcase. "My father put it in my hands the morning I went first to St. Andrews," he said softly, and then turned to Jessy, but she had left the room.

With a strange smile of satisfaction he touched the inner breast pocket of his long black vest, for in that pocket there lay a letter from Donald which was all his own. It had come to him by the same mail which brought Marion's, but some curious Scotch twist in his nature prompted him to conceal the fact. The root of this secrecy was undoubtedly selfishness. He did not want anyone else to see, or touch, or handle it – it was all his own, as long as it lay unspoken of in his breast wallet. There were things in it he could not bear to discuss – things that appeared to actually deny all the results he had declared would be the natural and certain consequences of Donald's disobedience and irreligious tendencies.

So he kept the letter in his breast and said nothing about it, and he went to Blackie's bookshop and brought home in his hand a volume by Mills with which he passed the long evening. Now and then he vouchsafed a few remarks on passing events, but upon the whole he had reason to congratulate himself upon his reticence and its success.

Nevertheless, it had been less successful than he imagined, for, after he had retired with Mr. Mills to the solitude of his study, Marion said, with a sigh, "He never named Donald, Aunt;" and Mrs. Caird answered sharply, "I am thinking, Marion, he knows all about Donald. He has had a letter his own self. The man is far too curious to have kept whist if he had not known what we were meaning by Donald's good fortune. No doubt Donald wrote to him. I would hardly believe your father if he said different."

After this event the gloomy winter of snow and rain and thick fog settled over the busy city, and people with firm-set lips and gloomy faces went doggedly about their business and tried not to mind the weather. But Dr. Macrae was acutely sensible to atmospheric conditions, and the nearly constant gloom and drizzle was but the outward sign of his mental and spiritual darkness and doubt. Day followed day in a monotonous despairing search for what he could not find, and life lost all its savor and searching all its hope and zest.

Finally his health began to suffer. He found out what it meant to be nervous and inadequate for duty. He became unreasonable or dourly despondent, and every change was marked by moods and tempers that affected the whole household. For the mind has malignant contagious diseases, as well as the body, and the black silent sulk or the fretful complaining in the study passed readily into every room of the gloomy household.

There are doubts that traverse the soul like a flash of lightning, burning their way through it; there are others that come slowly, insinuating themselves through a few careless words that somebody said because they had a clever ring. Doubt came to Ian like a mailed warrior, and met him, as Apollyon met Christian, with defiant words and straddling all over the way. What if there was no God? he asked boldly – if blind forces, beyond his comprehension, controlled the world? If life was only a semblance and mankind dreamers in it? What if the heavens were empty? If there was no one to answer prayer? If Christ had never risen? If the Word of God was not the Word of God?

Such questions are only of casual importance to the material man, but to Ian they were the breath of his nostrils. He lived only to solve them, and to pluck the Very Truth from the assertions and contradictions in which it lay buried. By night and by day he was in the thick of this storm, and was often so weary that he fell into long sleepy stupors. For great griefs and anxieties have these respites from suffering, and it was likely this very lethargy which overtook the Disciples in the sorrowful Garden of Olives. And this spiritual warfare was not a thing to be decided in a few days, or even weeks. Slowly, as the weary months went on, it disintegrated the Higher Life, leaving the man acutely intellectual, but without spiritual hope or comfort. It was mainly by Mrs. Caird's pleadings and reasonings that he had even been kept at his post in the Church of the Disciples.

"What do you expect to gain by leaving your work, Ian?" she asked. "If God should send a word to comfort you, it would doubtless come as it came to the good men and prophets of old – when they were on the threshing-floor, or among the flocks, or about their daily duties. You can at least do as Dr. Scott does – keep faithfully your obligation to the Presbytery, and, as a matter of professional honesty, preach good Calvinistic sermons to those who desire them. It might be that while you were helping and encouraging others the Divine Whisper would reach your heart. At any rate, it is more likely to come to you in the stress and duty of life than when you are thinking yourself into a stupor in that haunted study of yours."

"Haunted!"

"Yes, Ian, haunted by doubts that gather strength by habit – and by fears, that, like the needle, verge to the pole till they tremble and tremble into certainty."

And, though Ian had declared that he never could or would preach as a mere professional duty, he found himself obliged to do so. It was necessary to have a reason for his sermons, for without a reason he could neither write nor preach them; and he found in the faithful fulfillment of his ministerial vows the only substitute for that fervent zeal which had once touched his lips as with a live coal from the altar.

Indeed, many of the oldest sitters in the Church of the Disciples said that he had never before preached such powerful and unanswerable Calvinistic sermons – sermons that "crumpled up sinners spiritually" until the business obligations of Monday morning restored their elasticity. And though Mrs. Caird knew well that the passion and fiery denunciation of these sermons came out of the misery and the ill-conditioned temperament of the preacher, she approved his eloquence. With a sort of satisfaction she said to herself, "If these people like the God John Calvin made, I am glad that Ian shows Him to them – 'predestinating from all eternity, one part of mankind to everlasting happiness and another to endless misery, and led to make this distinction by no other motive than his own good pleasure and free will.'"

To Ian she said, "Your people can make no mistake about the kind of God they have to meet, and I am glad that lately you have been bringing your sermons to the counter and the hearthstone. You began your sermon to-day, as I think Christ must often have done, 'What man among you.' Men like to be appealed to, even if they have to admit they are wrong."

"I thought I might be too severe – when I consider it was a sinner correcting sin. But, Jessy, it is such blind, weary work, preaching what I do not believe."

"You do believe it. You know well it is the only Scripture for the dour, proud, self-reliant souls who have accepted it. I wonder, indeed, if they would respect a God who forgave his enemies, and who thought rich men would hardly win their way into the kingdom of heaven. As for hell, it is the necessary place for all who do not think as they do, or who in any other way offend them."

"Oh, that I knew where to find him!" cried Ian, and the passionate sorrow and entreaty in the lifted eyes and hands filled Mrs. Caird with a great pity, and she answered softly:

"When you seek for God with all your heart and with all your soul, Ian, you will find him."

"Do I not seek for Him with all my heart? I do! I do!"

Thus, in constantly soothing and strengthening the unhappy man, the weary months passed slowly away. And during them Ian was deteriorating both spiritually and physically, so much so that Mrs. Caird began to wonder if he ought not to be relieved from the strain of living so difficult a double life. Was there any necessity which would justify it?

"And he ought to be so happy," she said one day to herself, with a sob of something between anger and pity, "he ought to be constantly thanking God about his children, and he can think of nothing but what he himself wants, and that want a spiritual gift that few obtain. If he cannot believe Christ and the multitudes who have done so and found it sufficient, in whom, then, can he believe? There will be no special dispensation for Ian Macrae, and he need not be looking for it."

This fretful soliloquy took place nearly two years after the coming of those miserable books of Lord Cramer's into Dr. Macrae's life. He read others constantly which he hoped would nullify their power, but every fresh scientific or theological writer had only made his doubts and perplexities more and more confused and distressing; and it seemed at last, even to Jessy Caird, that he ought to be released from playing a part, which, however much good it did to others, was killing in its personal effects.

It was at this crisis he was walking one lovely Spring morning up Buchanan Street, and met Major Macrae. They clasped hands with an understanding smile, and the Major said, "I want an hour's talk with you, Ian. It is important. Come home with me." So they went together to Blytheswood Square, and into the little office at the back of the house, and the Major said:

"Ian, I am ready to recall Lord Cramer, and you will be glad to know that his estate is now money-making and in good condition; and, as my application for unlimited parole is not likely to be refused, there is no reason for delaying my niece's marriage."

"You must have great power with the War Office?"

"I am the power behind the power. Also, it is the desire of the Government that all noblemen should be on their estates. I have no doubt Lord Cramer will receive what he desires."

"He owed a large sum of money. Have you performed a miracle?"

"No. I have only made available a much larger sum. Many years ago, while riding with the late Lord, I noticed a peculiar appearance of the sea among the little bays that wash the northern part of the estate. I thought to myself, 'There is an oyster bed there,' but I said nothing, for the late Lord was only too speculative, and I needed all his money and all his interest at that time to get the property out of trouble. When Lord Richard was in the same trouble I remembered my suspicions, and sent half a dozen old oyster fishers to examine the situation. They found immense beds of oysters, and now there is an oyster fishery village there, and just one mile of railroad connects it with the line to Edinburgh. And, man! there's your market all waiting and ready. There never was such wonderful luck!"

"But the village and the necessary materials, the boats and cottages, the railroad and other requirements, must have cost a lot of money."

"To be sure they have. I have put a lot into the development myself. Why not? It will pay splendidly. Your future son-in-law will not only have a steady flow of gold from his oyster beds, they will also supply him with something to do and to look after. I have thought of that. I know it is good for men to come constantly in contact with facts. It helps them to keep their moral health. Tell Marion her lover may be home in three months, and I hope, Ian, you will no longer oppose their marriage."

"Marion can marry when she is twenty-one. Not until."

"You cannot prevent the young from marrying. They will do it. Donald tells me he is to be married on the fifth of December. I suppose you know whom to?"

"I know nothing about Donald, excepting that on the steamer to New York he met a Scotchman called Macbeth, and that somehow they struck up a friendship, and Donald was going with him to a place called Los Angeles. He appears to be much older than Donald. I do not understand such friendships, and, as I did not answer Donald's letter, he did not write again – and I have heard nothing further."

"I will tell you further, though you are not deserving the news – the why and wherefore of the friendship between Donald and Mr. Macbeth was, first of all, that they both played the violin and both loved it, and on the voyage they turned the smoking-room into a concert room, for the Captain played likewise, and he brought his violin there when he could. The second thing was that everyone – men and women – were loving Donald, and when they reached New York Macbeth would not part with the lad, and they went together to Los Angeles, and then to his handsome home a few miles from the city. There he had great vineyards and farms of figs and lemons, and wonderful peaches and pears, and Donald has taken gladly and happily to helping him in the making of wines and raisins and the drying of fruit. The work is all out of doors in a climate like Paradise. In the evenings they play their violins and sing Scotch songs, and are as near heaven as they can be on earth."

"You can't sing Scotch songs anywhere but in Scotland. They won't bear transplanting any better than bell-heather. Fancy bell-heather in a London park!"

"Scotchmen are singing them all over this world, and, for all I know, all over other worlds; but we are getting away from our subject, which was my nephew, Donald Macrae. This Mr. Macbeth has a daughter, a beautiful girl, not eighteen until the fifth of December. Then he will give her to Donald with half a million dollars, which Donald will invest in Macbeth's business, and so become his partner. The girl is lovely as an angel. I have a picture of her. Do you want to see it?"

"No."

"And she has a beautiful name, and I'll just put it into your memory, Ian. She is called Mercedes."

"Spanish! Is she a Spaniard?"

"Her mother was a California Spaniard of old and wealthy lineage."

"A Roman Catholic, doubtless."

"Of course. That goes without saying. It does not matter if she loves God."

"It matters anyway and everyway. It takes all the good out of the circumstance. The girl was the devil's bait for the poor lad's soul."

"Nonsense, Ian! One creed is as good as another. Creeds, indeed! Religion has nothing to do with such outside details. God save us! What kind of a head must a man have who could think so? I can tell you, Ian, the belief in any creed stands in these days on the edge of a razor."

"Then what have we left?"

"We have Faith, man. Faith goes below creeds, straight to the impassioned human hopes out of which creeds have grown. Faith in spiritual matters is just what courage is in material life. My word, Ian! if you had only Faith, you would see some good in every creed."

"Well, then, all creeds claim to come from the Bible."

"There is no such thing as a creed or a system of Divinity in the Book – nothing in it but human relations touched by the Spirit of God."

"I am glad, however, to hear of Donald's good fortune."

"It is wonderful. Every good gift of life put into his hand unsought. A beautiful and wealthy wife, who loved him from the moment they met, and a father-in-law who treats him already as a dearly beloved son."

"Donald is not his son, however, and never can be. I am forever and ever Donald Macrae's father."

"A splendid home, a large and prosperous business, and the finest climate outside of the Kingdom of Heaven. It is like a fairy tale," continued the Major enthusiastically.

Ian smiled, and said slowly, as if he could hardly remember the words he wished to say, "You are right,

 
'It sounds like stories from the Land of Spirits,
If any one attain the thing he merits,
Or any merit that which he obtains.'
 

I am glad to have heard such a romance."

"Marion, or Mrs. Caird, could have told it to you, chapter by chapter, as it was making."

"And with what advices and entreaties!"

"Words only. I never mind words. Ian, you are looking ill. What is the matter with you? Is it the loss of that woman?"

"The Duchess of Rotherham? No. I never allow myself to think of her. It is a loss so transcendantly greater that there is not speech to define the distance. I have lost God!" and he looked up with a face of such desperate sorrow and patience as infected the heart of the older man with uncontrollable pity.

"O Ian! Ian!" he answered in a low, intense voice, "you cannot lose God, and, if you could, He cannot lose you."

"My father's brother!¹ I have lost God, and the Devil – "

"Stop now. I disclaim for you and for myself all interest in the devil. I deny him! I deny him! Ach! I will not talk of him. If there be a devil, he can talk for himself."

"My God has left me. I know not where to find Him. I watch the day and the night through for a whisper or a sign from Him. 'As the hart panteth after the water brook, so panteth my soul for the living God.' To all my pleading He is deaf and dumb. My heart would break, but He has made it so hard that sometimes I can only pray for tears, lest I die of my soul's thirst."

"But this is dreadful, Ian, dreadful! Dear me! Dear me! What can I do?"

"What do you do when, through faults all your own, you have lost the sense of God's loving presence?"

"I will tell you truly, Ian. I write down all my sins and shortcomings, and then, kneeling humbly at His feet, I acknowledge them, and ask for pardon. I wait a moment or two, and then I mark them out with the sign of the [symbol: cross]. It cancels all, and generally I can feel this. If I do not feel it, I know something is wrong, and the confession is to make over again. It seems a childish thing for a man of sixty years old to rely on, Ian, but it has kept me at His Pierced Feet all my life long. If I had been a Roman Catholic – as the Macraes once all of them were – I should have gone to my confessor and had the priest's absolution; and I suppose it is some ancient feeling after the need and the comfort of confession. For I have 'confessed' in this way ever since I was a little lad, and I shall do so as long as I live. I have never told anyone but you of my simple, solemn rite; but it is a very solemn thing to me, however simple. Yes, it is. I speak the truth."

"Thank you. It is sacred and secret with me. Tell me now what would you do if you had to carry the burden Bunyan makes poor Christian carry through the Slough of Despond every Sabbath. It is my unspeakable burden to be compelled to preach. While I am preaching to others I am asking my soul, 'Art thou not thyself become a castaway?' Life is too hard to bear."

"Yet it was small help or comfort you gave your congregation last Sabbath."

"I did not see you in Church."

"I was there. It is indeed a very rare circumstance, but I was there, and I heard you tell your hearers that, bad as this life was, the next life would be much worse unless they lived a kind of righteousness impossible to them. Why do people listen to such words? Why do you say them? How do you dare to represent God as ordaining all things, yet angry with the actions of the creatures whom He has created to disobey His orders? And, since a man must sin by the very necessity of his nature, why is he guilty of his sins? How can people bear such sermons?"