Playing With Fire

"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?"

"They do not feel them. No one takes them as for themselves. The majority give all menaces to their neighbors. A great many do not believe such doctrine any more than you do."

"Then why do they go and hear it?"

"Because in Glasgow, Uncle, the respectable element compel the scornful to sit in the seat of the righteous. It is fashionable to go to church, and the strictest sect is the most fashionable. Anything like Armenianism or Methodism is democratic, and suitable only for the lower classes – it is too emotional, and brings religion down to Ohs! and Ahs! and to feelings that compel expression. There are various other reasons not worth mentioning."

"And you are permitting this false preaching of a false doctrine to kill you?"

"My trouble is far greater. Is there a God at all?"

"Now, Ian, such a question as that never darkened any man's life who did not go out of his way to seek it. Why did you meddle with those cloudy German philosophies? Like Satan, they are one everlasting No! How could you be influenced by them? I defy any metaphysician to argue me out of the testimony of my soul and my senses. It is not the 'No!' but the victorious 'Yes!' that life demands."

Then Ian made some explanations, but without success. The Major laughed scornfully at the names of his misleaders, and said, "I know all about them that I want to know. I could not sleep if their books were under my roof. Imphm!" he added with ejaculatory disdain. "You call their ravings scientific religion and religious philosophy. Rubbish, rubbish is the exact term for them."

"They have been widely read, sir."

"Nonsense! The Scotch mind is far too logical to grasp an existence that is non-existent; it sees no reality in what never happened, and you cannot make it believe that 'Being and not Being' are identical facts. It leaves all such ideas to those who live in that land

'Where Hegel found out, to his profit and fame,That Something and Nothing were one and the same.'

These two lines of a great critic were all I needed. I laughed heartily, and sent all the philosophies I had to the Clyde. Sandy, who threw them into it, said they went straight to the bottom. Ian, you are wandering in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Are you quite alone? Have you lost the Great Companion?"

"Yes."

"Then trust to the Man within you. No one can lose his soul who risks it with his Higher Self. He will lead you to the One mighty to save. And go and do your daily duty as you see it, and I am led to believe you will require to begin in the house on Bath Street. Dod, Man! I'm sorry for the two poor women who have to live with you. You must be a very uncomfortable, unsocial fellow to eat and to bide with."

"I don't think so, Uncle. When I cannot eat it is kind to keep away from the table; when I am unable to converse about the trivial things of this life it is best for me to be silent. A man as full of sorrow as I am – "

"Fills the whole house with his worry and lamenting. Go home, and eat with the two women you are treating so badly, and talk with them about the people and the things that they love and care for. That you can do, and that you must do."

"They love and care for me."

"I'm bound to say you don't deserve it, and that's a fact. Talk to them of Donald and Lord Cramer, and talk hopefully and pleasantly. They will be so grateful to you and so kind in return."

"They are always kind to me."

"Well, well! They just show that the grace of God and two women can live with a man that no one else could live with. I met Marion last week in the Arcade, and the little girl was miserable. She said you had scarcely spoken a word for three days. It is not right. Go home and talk to them."

"How can I talk what seems foolishness to me?"

"Try it. Foolishness has often turned out to be wisdom. There is what Paul calls 'the foolishness of preaching.' What are you going to do about that subject?"

"What would you do, Uncle?"

"I would preach the Truth, as I saw it and felt it, or – I would not preach it at all."

"Jessy Caird thinks that, until Marion is married, everything should remain as it is. Then! Then I will seek God until I find Him, or die seeking."

"Just so! I have noticed that few things give a man more satisfaction than a resolve to do better at some future time. As for Marion's marriage, I can't see what influence your preaching or not preaching can have on that circumstance. She will not be married in the Church of the Disciples, and of course you cannot marry her."

"Marion will be married in my church and I shall marry her. It will be a great trial, but I shall not shirk it."

"Lord Cramer will insist on being married in St. Mary's Church, and by the Episcopal ritual. You would not be permitted to perform any service in St. Mary's unless you had taken Episcopal orders."

"Then we can have a private marriage."

"We can do nothing of the kind. Do you think that I will consent to my niece being married in a mouse hole? The Bishop is going to marry her, and it is to be a very grand affair. I have influence to bring to the ceremony most of our neighboring nobility, and the military friends of Lord Cramer will be there in force, and their splendid uniforms will make a fine effect. It is the first wedding I have ever had anything to do with. You were married in a little Border village, and none of your kin there; – father and mother and your wife, all gone!" and the Major looked into the far horizon, as if he must see beyond it, while Ian stood still and white at his side. Not a word was spoken. For a few minutes both men surrendered themselves to Memory's divinest anguish. Then the elder returned to their conversation and said – though in a much more subdued manner:

"Tell Marion to choose her six bride'smaids and give them beautiful wedding garments; tell her all I have said, and try to take some interest in the matter. Do, my dear lad, for no man will ever win Heaven by making his earthly home a hell. Be sure and tell Marion that Lord Cramer will be here in three months, and give her a big check to prepare for his coming."

"I promise to tell Marion. I will be as good as my word."

"Just so. But this is a forgetful world, so I'll remind you of your promise once more – and there is the girl's little fortune."

"It is ready for her as soon as she is married. I have not touched a penny of it. It is intact, principal and interest, and, by a little careful investment, much increased."

"You are a good man – a generous man."

"No, no, Uncle. It was just pride, nothing better. She is my child. I preferred to take care of her myself – with my own money."

Then they talked over the amounts to be spent on the marriage, on dress, visitors, the ceremony and traveling expense, and when some decision had been reached the Major was weary. He sighed heavily, and advised Ian to go home and try to be of a kinder and more familiar spirit. "And tell Marion," he said, "Lord Cramer will be in Glasgow in three or four months, and she must have all her 'braws' ready, for he will not hear tell of waiting – no, not for a day."

CHAPTER X

A DREAM

For while all things were in quiet silence and the night was in the midst of her swift course… Then suddenly visions of horrible dreams troubled them sore, and terrors came upon them unlooked for. – Wisdom of Solomon, 18: 14: 17.

Dreams are rudiments of the great state to come.

For nearly two weeks after the Minister's talk with his uncle something of the old cheerfulness and peace returned to the house on Bath Street. To Marion her father was exceedingly kind and generous, and the girl was radiantly happy in his love and in the many beautiful gifts by which he proved it. But "the good and the not so good," which is, to some extent, the inheritance of us all, gave him no rest, though for some days he was able partially to control the strife. He had been too intense a believer to stand still and say nothing about his doubts; and when a Scotchman has cast off Calvin, and been unable to accept Kant, he is not an agreeable man in domestic life. He was morbid, but he was not insincere, and he was really desperate concerning the salvation of his own soul. So the busy gladness of Mrs. Caird about the wedding preparations and the joyous voice and radiant face of Marion, as the stream of love was bearing her gently to the Happy Isles, rasped and irritated him. He was beginning to feel that he had done enough – to wonder if he could not go away until the marriage was an accomplished fact. Everything about it, as far as he was concerned, had undergone the earth and been touched by disappointment; and nothing had brought him back the calm peace, the sweet content, the abiding strength that his old trust in the God of His Fathers had always given. The cynicism of lost faith infected his nature. He was even less courteous to all persons than he had ever been before. The man was deteriorating on every side.

"Oh, the regrets! the struggles and the failings!Oh, the days desolate! the wasted years!"

To such mournful refrains he walked, hour after hour, the crowded streets and the narrow spaces of his own rooms; for he felt, even as St. Paul did, that, if all this great scheme of Christianity were not true, then its preachers were of all men most miserable. Generally speaking, poor Burns' prayer that we might see ourselves as others see us is surely an injudicious one, but if the Minister could have been favored with one day's observation of Ian Macrae, as he really appeared to his family, it might at least have given him food for reflection.

After a day of great depression, partly due to the marriage preparations and gloomy atmospheric conditions, but mainly, no doubt, to his wretched spiritual state, he went one evening to a session at the Church of the Disciples. He wondered at himself for going and his elders and deacons wondered at his presence. He was lost in thought, took no interest in the financial report of the treasurer, and left the meeting before it closed.

"The Minister was not heeding whether the Church was in good financial standing or not," said Deacon Crawford, "and I never saw such a look on any man's face. It comes back, and back, into my mind."

"Ay," answered another deacon, "and did you notice his brows? They were sorely vexed and troubled. And the eyes that had to live under them! They gave you a heartache if he but cast them on you."

"We'll be having a great sermon come the Sabbath Day, no doubt," said the leading Elder; "and, the finances being in such good shape, what think you if we give the Minister's daughter a handsome bridal gift?"

"It isn't an ordinary thing to do, Elder."

"The Minister is getting a very good salary."

"He is an uncommonly proud man, too."

"And his daughter is marrying a lord."

"Well," answered the proposer of the gift, "there's plenty of time to think the matter over," and all readily agreed to this wise delay.

Though the Minister had left the session early, it was late when he reached home, weary and hungry, and glad of Mrs. Caird's kind words and plate of cold beef and bread.

"Where on earth have you been, Ian?" she asked. "Do you know it is past eleven?"

"I have been going up and down and to and fro in the city, watching the unceasing march of the armies of labor. The crowd never rested. When the day workers stopped the night workers began – weary, joyless men. It was awful, Jessy."

"I know," said Mrs. Caird, "it is

'All Life moving to one measure,Daily bread! Daily bread!Bread of Life, and bread of Labor,Bread of bitterness and sorrow,Hand to mouth, and no to-morrow.'

Good night, Ian. Go to sleep as soon as you can."

How soon he kept this promise he never could remember; he only knew that when he awakened he was drenched with the sweat of terror and trembling from head to feet. "Who am I? Where am I?" he asked, as he fumbled with the Venetian blind until it somehow went up and let in the early dawning. Then he noticed the dripping condition of his night clothing, and he hurried to his bed and cried out in a low, shocked voice, "The sheets are wet! The pillow is wet! What can it mean? What has happened? Oh, I remember!" And he covered his face with his hands and his very soul shuddered within him.

Then his wet clothing shocked and frightened him, and he began to remove it with palpitating haste, muttering fearfully as he redressed himself: "How I must have suffered! Great God, the physical melts away at the touch of the Spiritual! Oh, I wish Jessy would come! Why is she so late? When I do not want her she is here half an hour before this time." The next moment she tapped at his door and called,

"Ian."

"Oh, come in, Jessy. Come in! I want you! I want you!"

"Breakfast is waiting."

"Let it wait. Come in. I want you to tell me the truth, the plain, sure truth about what I am going to ask you."

"What is it, Ian?"

"Jessy, did you ever know me to dream?"

"Never. You have always declared that you could not understand what Marion and I meant by dreaming."

"Well, I had a dream this morning, and, though it seemed very short, I felt when I awoke from it as if I had been in hell all the night long."

"What did you dream?"

"I was in the vestry of the Church of the Disciples, putting on my vestments. I knew that the church was crowded, and I looked at myself and was proud of my appearance. Then I was walking up the aisle very slowly. Step by step I mounted the pulpit stairs, and stood facing the largest congregation I had ever seen. And the light was just like the light when there is an eclipse of the sun – an unearthly, solemn obscurity, frightful and mysterious. I stood in my place and surveyed the congregation. It filled the church, but the furthest points of distance appeared to be nearly in the dark. I could see forms and movements there, but nothing distinct. I looked at this gathering for a moment, and then laid my hand upon the Bible, and, with my eyes still upon the people, I opened it – Jessy!"

"O man! Speak!"

"There was nothing there."

"Nothing there! What do you mean?"

"Every page was blank – only white paper – not a word of any kind – "

"Ian Macrae!"

"I looked for my text. It was gone. I turned the pages with trembling hands, but neither in the Old nor the New Testament was there a word. And I cried out in my anguish, and looked at the wordless Bible till I felt as if body and soul were parting. God, how I suffered! Earth has no suffering to compare with it."

"Then, Ian?"

"Then I looked up at the congregation, and was going to tell them the Bible had faded away, but I saw the people were a moving dark mass, in a rapidly vanishing light; and I tried to find the pulpit stairs, but could not, for I was in black darkness. And I was not alone; to the right and the left there were movements and whispers and a sense of Presence about me. Powers unutterable and unseen that must have come out of inevitable hell. The whole earth appeared to be awake and aware, and the Name, the Name I wanted to call upon I could not remember. The effort to do so was a tasting of death."

He covered his face and was silent, and Mrs. Caird took his cold hand and said softly, "O Lord, Thou Lover of souls! Thou sparest all, for they are Thine."

"At last the Name came into my heart, Jessy, and though I but whispered the Word, its power filled the whole place, and the Evil Ones were overcome – not with strength nor force of celestial arms, but with that One Word they were driven away; and I awakened and it was just daylight, and I was so wet with the sweat of terror that I might have been in the Clyde all night. Was this a dream, Jessy?"

"Yes."

"What does it mean?"

"You know best. A God-sent dream brings its meaning with it. It is not a dream unless it does so. You know, Ian. Why ask me?"

"Yes, I know."

About this experience Mrs. Caird would not converse, for she was not willing to talk away the influence of Ian's spiritual visitation. She was quite sure that he understood the message sent him, and equally sure that he would implicitly obey it. So she left him alone, though she heard him destroying papers all day long. The next day being Saturday, he was very quiet, and she told herself he was preparing his sermon, and then with a trembling heart she began to speculate as to its burden. She feared that in some way his dream would come into relation or comment, and she could not bear the idea of such a public confidence.

She was still more uneasy when on Sunday morning he said in his most positive manner, "Jessy, I wish you and Marion to remain at home to-day. A little later you will understand my desire."

"As you wish, Ian. We shall both be glad of a quiet rest day. I hope you know what you are going to do, Ian. Our life is a spectacle – a tragedy to both men and angels – bad angels as well as good ones. Don't forget that, Ian."

"I shall not forget, and I know what I am going to do."

She looked at him anxiously, but had never seen him more decided and purposeful. He was also dressed with extreme care, and, though in ecclesiastical costume, was so singularly like his uncle that Mrs. Caird involuntarily thought, "How soldierly he carries himself! What a fighter he would have been! But he is some way quite different – not like the old Ian at all."

Yes, he was different, for on the soul's shoreless ocean the tides only heave and swell when they are penetrated by the Powers of the World to Come. And Dr. Macrae was still under the emotions of his first experience of that kind. He was prescient and restless. For, though the outward man appeared the same, the archway inside was uplifted and widened, and Dr. Macrae had risen to its requirements. He was ready to fight for his soul. Yes, with his life in his hand, to fight for its salvation. What would it profit him if he gained the whole world and lost his soul?

Frequently he assured himself that he did not now regard the Bible as divinely inspired, yet he was constantly deciding this or that question by its decrees. So quite naturally he followed this tremendous inquiry of Christ's by those two passionate invocations of David, "Cast me not away from Thy Presence. Take not Thy Holy Spirit from me." To be cast out of God's Presence. To be sent into the Outer Darkness, full of the Evil Ones! "O Jessy!" he cried, "such a doom would turn a living man into clay!"

It was of this awful possibility he was thinking as he walked to the Church of the Disciples. Two or three of the deacons were standing in the vestibule, and they looked at him and then at each other with a pleased expression.

"We rejoice to see you, sir, looking so well," said one. "The church is full, sir, and, if our clock is correct, there is but five minutes to service time."

He had five minutes yet, in the which he could draw back or postpone his intention – or – or – then his dream came to his remembrance, and he put all hesitation out of the question. With a thoughtful gravity he walked down the aisle, ascended the pulpit stairs, and stood in his place before the people. And they watched him with a sigh of content and pleasure. They had often seen in his eyes that far-away gaze of one who looks past the visible and sees time and eternity as the old prophets saw them.

They expected from this sign a sermon which would take them for an hour "to the Land which is very far off."

He stood silently facing his congregation, for even at this last minute there came to his soul a doubtful whisper, "The position is yet yours. You can delay any explanation a week – or even two. You had better do so." He trembled under the strain of this instant decision. But the whole congregation were rustling their hymn books and the precentor was taking his desk. Then in a dear, vibrant voice he said:

"We shall sing no hymn this morning. We shall make no prayer. I am here to bid you farewell. You will see my face no more."

There was an indescribable movement throughout the building, but nothing articulate, and he quietly continued: "I have ceased to believe in the divinity and the inspiration of the Bible. It is not any longer to me the Word of God. It has nothing to say to me, either of Time or Eternity. Its pages are blank. I might have gone away from you without any explanation. I was tempted to do so, but we have been twenty years together, and I desired to give you my last words." There was no response from the cold, voiceless crowd, but he felt their antagonism to be more palpable than that of either scornful looks or reproachful words. With eloquent anger he described the cynical complaisance with which the very existence of God and the inspiration of the Bible were now challenged and discussed. "There is boundless danger in all such discussions," he cried. "As long as we are loving and simple-minded we judge the Bible by the heart and not by the intellect. And of such are the Kingdom of Heaven." Then, as he spoke, the Word became Flesh and prevailed like a message from another world. Many were the hard words he gave them, and, if he had never before spoken the whole truth, he did so at this last hour – not of any settled purpose – but because it was the last hour, and he wanted them to see through his sight "the dead, small and great, standing before God for the judgment to come."

At this point the church was no longer either cold or voiceless, it felt rather as if it were on fire. The people trembled and prayed and wept as he spoke, and Ian Macrae was a man they had never before seen. His tall, grave figure radiated a kind of awe, his voice rang out like a command. The keen spiritual life within lit up his pale, striking face, and in his eyes there was a strange glory – they shone like windows in a setting sun.