Playing With Fire

The intensity of feeling had been so great that there was in about fifteen minutes an inevitable pause. Then he looked round, and continued:

"Listen to me a few moments, while I illustrate what I have said by my own experience. A few months ago the Bible lay in every fold of my consciousness. Now it has nothing to say to me, and it is impossible to describe the loneliness and grief that fills my empty heart. For the God of my Bible has left me. All my life I had trusted to whatever God said in His Word. God had said it, and I knew that God would keep His Word. Then I was tempted by the devil – no, by the gift of one thousand pounds, to examine my Father's Word – to prove, and to test, and to try it, by the suppositions and ideas of some small German, French, English – and Scotch, so-called philosophers. And I was too small for the intellectual dragon I went out to slay. All of them wounded me in some way, and my God left me. I deserved it. I have lost my place among the sons of God. With my own hand I crossed out my name from the list of those who serve His altar. In the honored halls of St. Andrews they will think it kind to forget Ian Macrae.

"I am now bidding farewell – bidding farewell forever – to you, and not only to you, but to all the innocent pleasures and happy labors of the past. For me there is no birthday of Christ – no farewell supper in the upper chamber – no flowery Easter morning. I dare not even think of that sacred ghost story in the garden, for, if the stone was not rolled away from the grave of Christ, it lies on every grave that has been dug since the creation. And if there is no resurrection of the body – there is no Life Eternal —there is no God!"

His voice had sunk at the last few words, but it was poignantly audible. A long, shuddering wail filled the church, and the women's cries and the men's mutterings and movements were sharply distinct. Then the Senior Elder looked expressively at the precentor, and he instantly raised the hymn known to every church-going Scot:

"O God of Bethel, by whose handThy people still are fed,Who through this weary wildernessHast all our fathers led."

The first line was lifted heartily by the congregation; they evidently felt it to be a proclamation of their Faith, but the melody quickly began to scatter and cease, and before the first four lines were sung it had practically ceased. Everyone, with movements of shock or sorrow, was watching the Minister, who was slowly removing from his shoulders the vestment of his office. In a few moments he had laid it slowly and carefully over the front of the pulpit. Then he turned to the stairs, and he remembered his dream and was afraid of them. What if there should be only one step to the floor below? The descent seemed steep and dark. He kept his hand on the railing of the balusters, and the cries of hysterical women and movements and mutterings of angry men filled his ears. It was growing dark. He felt that he was losing consciousness. Then a large, strong hand was stretched up to him, and, grasping it gratefully, he reached the ground in safety. And when he looked into his helper's face he said with wonder, "Uncle! You?"

"Just me, laddie. Keep your heart and head up. Come what will, you've done what's right. Put your arm through mine. We will take this walk together."

So arm in arm down the long aisle they went, and the Major said afterward, "It was a worse walk than any down a red lane on a battlefield." The women mostly covered their faces and wept. Many of the men were standing up, angry and offensive in word and manner, but sure that their attitude was well pleasing to God and to the Kirk He loved. The Major's carriage was standing at the curbstone, and, without delay, yet also without hurry, they took it and went together to Dr. Macrae's home. Being Sunday morning, the streets were nearly empty, and the drive, as became the day, was slow and silent. But Ian's hand was clasped in his uncle's hand, and words were not necessary.

Mrs. Caird was at the open door to meet them. "I heard the clatter of the Major's horses; they clatter louder than any other in Glasgow – but what are you here for? Who's preaching this morning? Ian, are you ill? Major, what is it?"

"Wait a while, my dear lady. Ian wishes to be alone, and I am going to take lunch with you. Then I will tell you all that Ian has done. I am going to give to-morrow to Ian and his affairs, so he will not require to worry himself either about the Kirk or the market place."

"I wish I had been present," answered Mrs. Caird. "I wish I had! I think I also would have had a few words to say – or at least a few questions to ask."

"I cannot understand Ian taking such a noticeable farewell. It would have been more like him to have said nothing to anyone, just resigned without reason or right about it. But doubtless he had a reason."

"He had. Two nights ago he had a dream."

"Never! Ian never dreams."

"He dreamt last Friday morning just at or before the streak of dawn. Listen!"

Then in an awed and whispering voice she related Ian's dream. The Major, who was naturally a psychic man and a great dreamer, listened with intense interest, but did not at once make any comment. After a short reflection, however, he answered with an air of complacent gratitude:

"God's dealings with the Macraes have ever been close and personal. Plenty of preachers are no doubt preaching this day what they do not believe, but they have not been shown and warned like Ian. I think his dream was a great honor and favor."

"You Macraes have a wonderful way of appropriating God. I dare say a great many ministers have been warned and advised as well as Ian."

"No, Jessy, they have not. If they had been warned as Ian was warned, they would have done exactly as Ian has done. Dreams are strange things. You cannot help noticing them – you cannot help being led by them. I wonder why."

"Because dreams belong to the Spiritual World, and humanity has an instinctive belief in this Spiritual World. You do not have to teach men and women to dream. A true dreamer has the gift in childhood as perfectly as in old age. There is no age, no race, no class, no circumstances free from dreams. God is everywhere and knows everything, and He speaks to His children in dreams and by the oracles that lurk in darkness."

"In my own life, Mrs. Caird, they have often read the future. How do they do it?"

"How can we tell what subtle lines are between Spirit and Spirit? A century ago nobody knew how messages could be sent through the air – sent all over the world. We had not then discovered the medium nor the method. In another century – or less – we may discover the medium and method of communication between this world and the other."

"Do you think some houses are more easily visited by dreams than others?"

"Yes, and for many reasons, but they cannot be prevented from entering any place to which they are sent. I was not a week at Cramer before I was aware

'of Dreams upon the wall,

And visions passing up the shadowy stair and through the vacant hall.'"

"I am glad you told me of Ian's dream. I understand him better now."

"And like him better?"

"Yes, but I have always loved Ian above all others."

"Then be patient with him now. It is hard for mortals to live when their moments are filled with eternity."

CHAPTER XI

LOVE IS THE FULFILLING OF THE LAW

"Then, as the veil is rent in twain,From unremembered places where they layDead thoughts, dead words arise and live again,The clouded eyes can see, the lips can pray.A purer light dawns on the night of pain,And, on the morrow, 'tis the Sabbath day."The love of God, which passeth all understanding.

For a few days Dr. Macrae was seen frequently about the streets of Glasgow. Some bowed to him, some passed by on the other side. He was also generally accompanied by Major Macrae or by a certain well-known lawyer, neither of them men partial to greetings in the market place or conversations at the street corners. So in a manner he was protected by his companions and his preoccupation. In his home all knew that he was going away, but no one named the circumstance to him. It was not an easy thing to talk to Macrae on subjects he did not wish named.

Indeed, it was four days after his public resignation from the ministry before the Church of the Disciples ventured to make any movement signifying their acceptance of his withdrawal. Then a little company of church officials called on him to exchange some necessary papers and pay the salary which was due. Thomas Reid's name was among those of the visitors, and for a moment Ian resolved not to meet them. But it was Jessy Caird who brought him their request, and she looked so persuasively at Ian that he answered:

"Very well, Jessy, if you think so, send them in here."

When the little band entered his study his heart melted at the sight of these old associates of his dead life. They had honored and loved him for many years, and his miserable state was not their fault. Only Elder Reid had ever offended, and he had always regretted the trouble and been glad when it was removed. So Ian looked at them with his heart in his eyes, and they looked at him and could not utter a word.

For this man was not their long-beloved Minister. He was even outwardly so changed they could not for a few moments accept him. That very day Ian had taken off his "blacks" forever. The long black broadcloth coat and vest and the snow-white band around his throat had been replaced by a very handsome suit of dark tweed, such as they were themselves wearing. And this change in his dress – so totally unexpected – moved them beyond all reason. They looked at him in silence, and their hearts and eyes were full of unshed tears.

They had seated themselves on the long sofa, and Macrae rose and went to them: "You have come to bid me farewell," he said, "and I am glad to see you – you have been brothers to me – it breaks my heart to part with you – and all you represent – but I must go. I know not where – nor yet what may befall me, but if I die I shall die seeking the God I have loved – and – lost."

As he spoke he advanced to the man nearest him and held out his hand, and it was taken with great apparent love and emotion. An older man bent his head over it – was it not the kindly, gracious hand that had so often broken to him the Bread of Life? Thomas Reid was the last of the company. He looked into Macrae's face with brimming eyes, and when he took Ian's offered hand a great tear dropped upon the clasping fingers. Both men saw it, and Macrae said with a sad smile:

"That washes all unkindness out, Elder," and with sobbing words Reid answered: "It does, sir. It does. O Minister, is it not possible for you to unsay the words you said last Sabbath Day?"

"No."

"The Lord is merciful to His elect."

"I have denied the Lord, and He has forsaken me."

"He cannot forsake those whom He has chosen. You have lived a good life."

"I have not. I have run after strange gods. I have looked His Word in the face and disobeyed it. I have put scientific and philosophical religion in the place of Christ's religion, and my Bible, once full of comfort, has nothing to say to me."

"Well, then, sir, you know who is the mediator between God and man."

"Elder, if there is a God, I want to find Him."

"Then seek Him, sir."

"I am seeking Him as those who seek for life and life eternal. Through the world I will seek Him. To the last breath of this life I will call upon – perhaps – if there is a God – He may hear me."

Blind with feeling, the men went away so quietly that Mrs. Caird threw down her work and said impatiently: "There! He has sent them off without a word. How could he do it? Oh, but Scots are hard-baked men. Even those proud English would have had a 'God speed' to bless the parting, and I – "

Then Ian entered, and he said cheerfully: "We had a pleasant parting, Jessy. I am glad of it. I would have been sorry to have missed it."

"What did you say to them?"

"What I said last Sabbath – that I was going to seek Him whom my soul loveth, even if I died in the search."

"There is no 'if' in such a search. God is not a 'highly probable' God. He is a fact. He is nearer to you than breathing, closer than hands and feet. Even a pagan knew that much, Ian; all that is wanted is to become conscious of the nearness of God, and to seek God with all your heart and all your soul, and you will find Him. Not perhaps! You will find Him." And Ian was silent and troubled, and went away.

Then Jessy took her knitting again, and, as she lifted the dropped stitches, said slowly and sorrowfully: "Ah me! How many half-saved souls must come back again to learn the lesson they should have learned in this life. God may well be merciful to sinners, for they know not what they do."

On Saturday morning he went very quietly away. He had done all that could be done for the happiness of his family, and the situation had been tranquilly accepted by them. There was no haste, no irritating questions or advices, and, as soon as he was out of sight, everyone went back to the work occupying them. Yet the man they had watched away was near and dear to them, and full of a sorrow so great they hardly understood it.

He was bound for the Shetlands, because he believed he would find in their simple Kirks the height, and depth, and purity of Calvinism. But he found nothing peculiar to these strong, silent fishers. They had generally an inflexible faith in their own election, and in the ordering of their lives by a God who knew "neither variableness nor shadow of turning." They went fearlessly out on any sea a boat could live in, because, if it was not their appointed hour of death, "water could not drown them"; and in all other matters they approved of John Calvin's plan of sin and retribution, and stuck to it like grim death.

Yet he spent the whole summer in Shetland, and winter was threatening to shut in the lonely islands when he saw one morning an unusual craft fighting her way into harbor. She was a strong, handsome boat, a perfect model of what a fine fishing-smack should be, and she was flying a blue ribbon from her masthead. Evidently she was one of the mission ships serving the Deep-Sea Fishermen. Ian was instantly much interested, and soon fell into conversation with one of her surgeons, who took him on board and who talked to him all day of this great floating city of the fishing fleets – a city whose streets were made of tossing ships – a city without a woman in it – a city whose strange, winding lanes of habitations ceaselessly wander over the lonely, stormy miles of the black North Sea – a city even then of more than forty thousand inhabitants.

"And what of the men in this floating city?" asked Ian.

"They are men indeed! Speaking physically, they are the flower of our race. They have muscles like steel, their eyes are steady, their feet sure. The sight of the work they do strikes terror in the heart of one not used to it. When the call comes for the great net to be hauled they hurry, half-asleep, on deck, very often to face a roaring icy wind, lashing sleet or blinding snow. They tramp round the capstan and tug and strain with dogged persistence until the huge beam of the trawl comes up. Then, often in the dark, they grope about till they mechanically coil the nets and begin the gruesome work of sorting and packing fish, with but fitful gleams of light."

"What a dreadful life!" exclaimed Ian.

"And when the haul is over there is no bath, no change of clothes, no warmth for the men. They plunge into their reeking dog-hole of a cabin, and in their sodden clothes sleep until the next call sends them on deck with their clothes steaming.

"But you see, sir," he continued, "we are beginning to send mission ships and hospital ships among the fleets, and the men do not have – when they break or fracture a limb, or in other ways injure themselves – to be tossed from ship to ship until, perhaps after three or four days, they come to a place where they can be attended to."

"And are you improving these conditions in every way?" asked Ian.

"Yes, indeed, very rapidly."

"I should like to go with you."

"No. You would soon be wretched. You could not bear to see the smacksmen at their work. It makes me shiver to think of it. Two days ago I attended to a man who had shattered three fingers and divided a tendon, and who was working out his time in pain that would have been unbearable to me or to you. Our hospital ships, when we have builded plenty of them, will alter such things. But, sir, if you do not want to die of heartache, keep out of the Deep-Sea Fishing Fleet. No weakling could stand it – he could not live a month in it."

Ian, however, could not be discouraged. He remained anxious to see the fleet fisheries at close quarters, and when a boat, urged by four strong rowers, came that afternoon for the surgeon, Ian pleaded to accompany him. "I can help you, Doctor," he said. "I know a little about surgery." So Ian prevailed, and in a few minutes was with the surgeon on his way to the injured man. They found him lying in a lump on the deck, under his head a coil of ropes. The skipper stood at his side, making no pretense to hide his grief. "It's Adam Bork, Doctor," he said, "the best sailor in the fleet, my old mate. Doctor, do something for him."

The Doctor looked at the man, then at the skipper. "There is not a hope," he answered. "He is dying now."

The man heard and understood, he looked at the skipper and the skipper bent to his face. Something was asked, something was promised, and the two men, with one long farewell look, parted forever.

The Doctor soon found other patients, and he told Ian to watch by the dying sailor and to give him spoonsful of cold water as long as he could take them.

"Is that all that can be done?" inquired Ian.

"I will ask him," and he said, "Adam, you are in mortal pain – the pains of death – shall I give you something to ease them?"

"What can you give me?"

"Laudanum."

"No. I won't go to God drunk."

"You are right, Bork. Good-bye."

About dawning the dying man looked at Ian with such a piteous entreaty in his pale blue eyes that Ian felt he must, if possible, grant whatever he desired. Very slowly and distinctly he asked, "What – do – you – want – me – to – do?" and the answer came, as if from another world, muffled and far off, but thrilled with such an agonizing intensity that it struck Ian as if it was a physical blow,

"Pray for me!"

Ian knelt down. He tried to pray, but he could not. With almost superhuman efforts he tried to pray, not for himself, but for this poor sailor sinking and dying in that dark place, struggling, forsaken, alone, but he could not. Again the dying man whispered, "Pray!" and his eyes were full of reproach, and the look in them almost broke Ian's heart. The next moment he was gone.

It was against all Ian's spiritual feelings to pray for the dead, but in after years he prayed often and sincerely, "for the repose of the soul of Adam Bork." And why not? God was still in His Universe, Adam was therefore somewhere in God's presence. It may even be that prayer prevails there more easily than here. Creeds may say what they like, the heart of humanity prays for its beloved dead as naturally as it prays for its beloved absent.

As soon as possible Ian was put on shore, and a week afterward he found himself in his uncle's home. He had gone first to Bath Street, but the house there was closed and empty. There were placards in the windows offering it for sale or rent, and the windows themselves, always so spotless, were now black with smoke and dust. It was a cold day and had a sharp promise of winter in its flurries of north wind and little showers of icy rain with them. All was desolation. Ian's first thoughts were of an angry, injured nature. The empty house told its own story. Marion was married, Donald in California, and Jessy had doubtless returned to her own home in the Border country. "No one cared about him, etc.," and when people get into this selfish mood they never ask themselves whether they are reasoning on just or unjust premises.

So Ian went to Blytheswood Square, and found his uncle cheerfully eating a good dinner. He was delighted at his nephew's return. "Laddie! Laddie!" he cried joyfully, "you are a sight to cure sore eyes. I was just thinking of you; when did you touch Glasgow?"

"An hour ago. I went to Bath Street, and found the house empty."

"Just so. All gone to bonnier and better homes. At least they think so, and we must even bear the same hope. Where have you been?"

"In the Shetlands. I found nothing to help me there. The last week I spent with the North Sea Fishing Fleet."

"Did you? I am delighted. That is where all my spare cash goes. That is the reason I do not give Elder Reid a big sum for his Foreign Mission Fund. I do not like Hindoos and Chinamen, and they have a religion of their own quite good enough for them. But oh! Ian, those big, brave fellows, working like giants and suffering beyond ease or help, they are our kin – leal, brave Scots, who would die for Scotland's right, or Scotland's faith, any hour it was necessary. It was only yesterday Reid stopped me on the street and asked me for a subscription for the Chinese Missions."

"What did you say?"

"I did not heed him. I buttoned up my coat and set my eyes far off to the river side."

"You did right."

"It stands to reason that Scotchmen ought to look after their own first."

"I suppose I am quite forgotten. I have had no letters. I do not know whether anything has happened or not."

"You left no address. You wrote to no one. Yes, to me you sent one letter, full to its edges with uncertainties. You must remember Marion is married and greatly taken up with her husband. You never answered Donald's letter, and the lad, of course, takes it for granted that his silence was what you wished. Ian, you have tried wandering, and there is no peace or profit in it. Now, then, if you cannot pray, you can work; if you can't love God, you can love your fellow creatures. Dr. James Lindsey was here last week, and I spoke to him about you. When you were a stripling you were all for surgery, and Dr. James thinks you will yet make a fine surgeon. You are to live with him, and he was delighted at the very thought of your company. It is the great opportunity left you, and I hope you see all its possibilities and will accept them."

Ian was satisfied at the prospect. It was quite true that even in boyhood he had had a craving for the surgical profession, and the arrangements made for him by the two elder gentlemen were so homely and generous, and so full of kind consideration, that he was greatly moved by their unselfishness. In a few days he went to London, and was met at the train by Dr. Lindsey. Ian was not ignorant of him. He had seen him at his uncle's house several times, and he knew that the Major and Dr. James had been friends since ever they were barefooted laddies, fishing in the mountain streams together.

Neither was Lindsey ignorant of Ian. He had heard him preach, and he knew something of the soul struggle through which he was passing. Indeed, he had his own plans for relieving this spiritual misery, and, as soon, therefore, as Ian reached London, he found all his days filled with study and labor. But his surroundings were homelike and pleasant, and the men were intellectually well matched.

Now, the road downward is easy and rapidly taken, and Ian had managed to slip from the pinnacle of ministerial fame into silence and forgetfulness in about one year, but it took him a ten years' climb to win his way to about the same pitch of public favor in his new vocation. But of this ten years I shall have little to say. The road upward is a climb to the very top, and all men find it so, but Ian enjoyed the study and the practical work of his profession and became extraordinarily skillful in it.

Their lives were by no means dull or monotonous. Truly the day was given up to business, but they usually dined together at seven, and afterward went to the opera or theater, or perhaps to a reception at some house where they were familiar and honored guests. Or, if they wished to stay at their own fireside, they were the best of good company for each other. Nothing that touched man's soul or body came amiss for their discussion, and if Ian was the more widely and generally educated, Dr. Lindsey had the keener spiritual instinct, and his soul often ventured where Ian's followed only with flagging and uncertain wings. In the summer they made short trips to the Continent or they went to Glasgow, and, being joined there by the Major, sailed north to the Macrae country, and then home by Cromarty and Fife.