Playing With Fire

When Ian had been in London ten years Dr. Lindsey began to talk of a rather longer holiday than usual. "But first," he added, "here is a letter from Squire Airey, and he wants either you or me to run up to Airey Hall to examine his fractured arm. It is all right, I know, but he is frightened and impatient, and you might go as far as Furness and make him comfortable."

"I should like to go. I have long wanted to see Windermere, and I could return that way."

With his patient at Airey Hall Ian stayed two days, and on the third morning the Squire said: "Doctor, I will give you a good mount, and you can ride as far as Ambleside. You will go through a lovely land. Leave the horse at the Salutation Inn in Ambleside when you take the train. I will send a groom for it."

So Ian took the Squire's offer, for it was a lovely day in August, and everything seemed to shimmer and glow through a soft golden haze. The tender, peaceful scenes on all sides induced in him a little mood of pathos or regret. He could not help it. He had no particular reason for it; he appeared, indeed, to be in a very enviable condition. He was yet exceedingly handsome, for it takes a Scotchman fifty years to clothe his big frame, to round off the corners and soften the large features, and to make out of a gigantic block of bone and sinew a handsome, finely modeled man. He had, as far as business went, made himself twice over. He was the welcome friend and guest of the greatest scientists and physicians, and his short visits to the most exclusive drawing-rooms were regarded as great favors. Was he not happy, then? No. Regret, like a slant shadow, darkened all his sunshine, and the want of personal love left his life poor and thin on its most vital side.

Nor could he ever forget that solemnly joyful night following the day of his admission to the ministry. Like the knights of old, he had spent the midnight hours in the dark, still Kirk of Macrae, and the promises he then made and the secret, sacred joys of his espousal to the Holy Office, had been graven on his memory by a pen which no eraser can touch. Whenever he was long alone this memory shone out in every detail, and he said once, in a passion of anger at himself: "If I had been a soldier of the Queen, they would have drummed me out of the ranks. I would have deserved it – yes, I would!"

This morning the unwelcome memory returned and returned, and, in order to be rid of it, he began to pity himself for the loneliness of his life and the misfortune which had attended all his affections.

"There was old Lord Cramer, his apparent kindness was all a plot to get a little posthumous fame out of my intellect. His one thousand pounds was a miserable price for the work he proposed for me, and he tried to pass it off as a kindness. I hate the man, and I hate myself for being fooled by him. Lady Cramer – nay, I will let her go – another has judged her now. Donald, whom I idolized, nearly broke my heart, gave a son's love to a stranger, married a Spaniard and a Roman Catholic, and has not noticed me for years. I dare say Donald and that Scotchman have had many a laugh over my leaving the ministry. Jessy went to them, and she could tell them every circumstance of the event. And, though Marion writes whiles, and has called her son after me, I never see her unless she happens to be at Uncle Hector's when I go to see him. And, of course, I cannot call at Lord Cramer's house, not even to see my daughter. Was any man ever so undeservedly deserted as I am?"

He was slowly passing through a little village as he troubled his heart with these thoughts. And, as he looked at the small dark cottages wanting the usual gardens of flowers, he said to himself, "It is a mining village; there must be many of them in this locality;" and so was returning to his unprofitable musing when a tremendous explosion occurred, and the women from every cottage ran crying to the pit mouth. Ian also hastened there, and, when he said he was a physician, was taken down in the first cage. It stopped at an upper gallery and the men ran backward into the mine. Ian thought he had suddenly awakened from life and found himself in hell. He heard only cries and groans and shouts, and the running of men and their frantic calling of names. And he was spellbound at the first moment by the sight of a boy about nine years old, lying in a narrow cut of the coal, with a great block of coal across his body. His father stood beside him, his face full of unspeakable love and pity, for the mute anguish of the child was terrible. But, ere he could speak to them, there was a frenzied rush of men crying, "Fire! Fire! After-damp!" For just one minute they stood at the cut where the child lay, and called, "For God's sake, Davie, come, come, come!" and Davie shook his head slightly, and answered,

"Nay, I'll stay with the lad."

And when Ian heard these words, they smote him like a sword, and he cried out: "I have seen God's love! This hour I have seen God's love– like as a father pitieth his children – even unto death – so God pities and loves. My God, love me! Teach me how to love! I am thy faithless son, Ian; forgive me and love me!"

He was in an ecstasy, and, even as he prayed, a still, small voice ran, like a swift arrow of flame, through all the black galleries of the mine – a voice like the noise of many waters, but sweet as the music of heaven, and it spoke but one word:

"Ian!"

Through all that earthly hell, filled with death and horror of suffering, above the crying of the men, above the screams of the wounded, the voices of fear and agony, this wonderful voice passed along, swift as the lightning, yet full of the divinest melody.

These events so marvelous to Ian had not occupied more than a moment or two of time. Then there was another rush of men with the assurance that it would be the last. They swept Ian with them, but Davie, still standing by his child, just shook his head and repeated his decision, "Nay, I'll stay with the lad"; and the crowd, with fire behind them, struggled to the cage and were drawn up to the sunshine.

At the pit mouth Ian met the rescue company of the pit and the physicians, and he untied his horse and rode away into the woods and hills. He was weeping unconsciously, washing every word he uttered with tears of repentance and love.

"Oh, it is wonderful!" he cried. "Wonderful! Wonderful! Out of all the millions of men in this world, God knew my name. He knew where I was. He called me by my name. Oh, miracle of love!"

All the way to Ambleside he rode slowly. He was in a transport of love and joy – had he not been veritably taken by God's love "out of hell"? He was thrilled with wonder, and he would make no haste. He bent his soul to the heavenly influences which had made the last few hours forever memorable. So his prayers grew sweeter and calmer. They had in them the voices of the night wind, the awe of the stars, and the rustle of unseen wings. And, just as he was entering Ambleside, his Bible took part in his happiness and whispered to his heart a verse he had read hundreds of times, but which at this hour seemed to have been written specially for him.

"Fear thou not. I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by thy name. Thou art mine." – Isaiah 43:1.

He knew then what he was to do.

CHAPTER XII

AFTERWARD

"Christ is God's realized idea of perfected humanity.""Think, when our Soul understandsThe Great Word which makes all things new,When earth breaks up and heaven expands,How will the change strike me and youIn the house not made with hands?""Pouring Heaven into this shut House of Life!"

According to a literary scripture, my story should end here. I have satisfied my proposition – the man who lost God has found Him; therefore, to say more is to pass my climax and break a very prominent canon of criticism. But I am sure that there are many who have followed the struggle of Ian Macrae into the Second Birth who will desire to know what the New Man did with his New Life; and I think it better to grant a good wish than to keep a literary law.

In that blessed night, full of the presence of God, which Ian had spent on the hills surrounding Ambleside, he had looked steadily and hopefully into the future, and clearly understood what he must do. So he never thought of returning to London, but early in the morning took a train to Glasgow. In the place where he had doubted and denied God he must show Him forth publicly as the Father and Lover of Souls, the God gracious and long-suffering, full of mercy and truth. He was anxiously longing to begin this work; he grudged the hours in which he had to be silent, and was full of a buoyant joyfulness so sincere and so radiant that people looked into his face and involuntarily smiled.

He reached Glasgow before the noon hour, and as soon as he was inside his uncle's house he called him in resounding tones, full of eager, wistful excitement. And the Major, who was in his private office, recognized the voice and went hastily to meet his nephew.

"Why, Ian, Ian! What is the matter?" he cried. "Whatever has come to you? You look – you speak like a different man!"

"Uncle! Brother of my father! I have found what I lost! I have found Him whom my soul loveth!" Then they sat down, and Ian related the wonderful story of the last wonderful twenty-four hours; and the old man listened with a joy past utterance. His face radiated wonder and love, his blue eyes shone through reverential tears, unconsciously his head and hands were uplifted, and his lips whispered the prayer of thanksgiving that was in his heart.

"It is a heavenly story, Ian," he said, "and the greatest wonder is this – though numberless souls have such experiences, every one has its own solemnly distinct personality. And their number never makes them common. They are always wonderful. They are never doubted, and they never fail. But, Ian, no one that has been 'called by name' can ever forget the voice that called him; it haunts and hallows life forevermore. Now, then, what are you going to do?"

"I am going to preach the Love of God! – the patient, everlasting Love of God! O Uncle, can I ever forget the love in that father's face as he stood waiting to die with his child? I was not told, I did not read of it, I saw the love of God in that father's face, and knew in that moment how God so loved the world that He gave His Son for its salvation. Now, through all the days of my life, I am going to preach the Love of God."

"That is right. You shall have a church here – in Glasgow."

"Somewhere among the teeming habitations of the poor."

"No. The rich need the gospel you have to preach more than the poor do. We will build among the terraced crescents, where the rich dwell. And we will build of good gray granite, and finish it with the best of everything – and the pulpit will be yours."

"Dear Uncle, no pulpit! I could not go into one again. I have two memories of a pulpit. I wish to forget them. But there is something we have not spoken of that I desire greatly to have in connection with my church. I mean a dispensary. Christ healed the body as well as the soul; for it is not a soul, nor is it a body we wish to train upward – it is a Man, and we ought not to divide them."

So they talked over the dispensary with perfect accord, all the time the table was being laid for dinner and the meal eaten. Nothing interfered with this interest. It was quite a fresh one to the Major, and he was greatly delighted with the idea. Indeed, it was the old soldier who first proposed a small surgery connected with the dispensary. "When I was at the wars," he said, "I saw many a poor man suffering for want of the knife and a bandage. We must have a little surgery, Ian." And Ian joyfully acceded to the proposition.

"It will be a big increase in your work, Ian, but – "

"O Uncle, I am here to work – not to study and dream. I must work, I must preach; I must help the sick and sorrowful. How soon can the church be ready?"

"I do not know exactly, but we will build the surgery and dispensary as soon as we have got the proper location. They will give you many good opportunities while the church is building. And I hope you have not forgotten duties kin and kindred to yourself. They cannot be overlooked, Ian."

"I will overlook none of them, Uncle. I have been a great sinner in this respect."

"For instance, Marion has never weaned herself from you. She talks of you constantly when she comes here, and we have had some tearful hours about your silence and neglect."

"I will atone for them as soon as may be. I have often been sorry that I did not stay and see her marriage."

"It was a grand affair. Nothing like it was ever seen in Glasgow before or since. There were the Bishop and two clergymen to perform the ceremony and a notable company to see that it was properly done. Among this company were three officers from the Household troop, and, if I had the words, I would tell you about their splendid uniforms and stars and ribbons of honor. And there was Lochiel, in full Highland costume, looking more like some old god than a man – and McAllister and McLeod and Moray, and half a dozen more in all their varieties of kilts and plaids and philabegs; velvet vests and gold buttons, and eagle feathers in their Glengary caps. They were a splendid and picturesque background for the lovely bride, clothed in white from head to foot and looking like an angel. McAllister had sent a basket of white heather for bridal bouquets, and every Highlander there wore a spray of it in his vest or cap. I had a stem or two at my own breast – and Marion's veil was crowned with a wreath of the lovely flowers."

"After the marriage, where did they go?"

"First of all, they came here, to my house – and we had a bridal breakfast that none will forget. Lord Glasgow toasted the bride, and the Provost of the City made answer for her. His speech was well enough, but a little o'er long – considering the occasion."

"And then?"

"They went to all the capital cities of Europe. It was a wonderful honeymoon trip. They might have been royalties themselves, they were that nobly entertained. Well, well! Marion Macrae was a bonnie bride, and she is far bonnier and better now than she was then – the best of mothers, the best of wives, a noble woman every way. She has a son called 'Ian,' after you, and two little girls who wear the names of Agnes and Jessy – you know – "

"Yes – I know. How could I ever forget?"

"And there is poor Donald. You are not to slight Donald. You will write to him, Ian?"

"I will go to him. I can never be quite satisfied until I have seen Donald. I was cruel and selfish then, but I loved him. I love him now better than ever. He sits in the center of my heart. I must go as soon as may be to California."

"You are right. We will buy our land and make our estimates, and set the men to work. Then you can go and kiss your banished son."

"I am afraid I cannot bring him home again."

"Would you think of suchlike foolishness? God gave him his wife and his portion out there. But I will tell you what you can do – you can bring home Mrs. Caird. In her last letter to Marion she said she was weary of golden oranges and perpetual sunshine; and she hoped God would let her come hame to her ain countrie before she died. She was fairly sick for the gray skies and green braes of Scotland, and, as for the rain, it was only gloom upon gleam, and gleam upon gloom – very comfortable weather upon the whole. I was sorry for the pleasant little woman. You can bring her back. See that you do so. For I am counting on you living with me, Ian. Why should we part? I am growing old, and need your love and company; and I want to be your right hand in the Godlike work before you."

"My dear Uncle, you shall have all your will. I desire nothing better than to share your love and your home, and have your constant counsel and help."

"Then bring back Mrs. Caird. She will send away all the wasteful, lazy, dirty men bodies round the house, and hire in their place tidy, busy young lasses. Then, Ian, I can have a dream of a home for my old age. No matter what her 'will and want,' give her everything she asks – only bring her back."

"I will do so, Uncle – if possible."

"Possible or not – bring her back."

There was no pause in their conversation until the long summer twilight filled the quiet square. Then they suddenly remembered Doctor James Lindsey and the London duties that might be hard to relinquish, and thus delay the work which they so eagerly willed to do. So Ian spent the evening in writing to his friend, while the Major lost himself the while in financial calculations about the great project.

Ian had not one doubt of his friend's sympathy. "I know James Lindsey, Uncle," he said with an air of happy confidence; "he will count God's claim long before his own. And he will see at once that I have been unconsciously preparing myself for the great work we are planning for eleven years; and, though I have been led by a way I knew not, every step has been taken right."

Then the Major looked into his happy face and said solemnly: "Ian, if you saw the love of God shining on that father's face in the awful pit, I see it just as plainly on your countenance. It has absolutely changed it. Your voice is also different, and your words go singing through my soul. You are a new man. You are a happy man, and I used to think that, of all men, you were the most miserable."

"Uncle, I might well be miserable. The phantoms that peopled my nights must have destroyed life if God had not forbidden it – remorse that came too late – cries uttered to inexorable silence – doubt – anguish – prostration worse than death. I was afraid to look back, equally afraid to look forward; and then last night changed all in the twinkling of an eye. I fell at the feet of the Father of Spirits with a joy past utterance. Troubles of all kinds grew lighter than a grasshopper. I had a rest unspeakable until rapture followed rest, and I cried out, 'Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire beside Thee!'" Then the two men involuntarily clasped hands. They had no words fit for that moment. Words would have been a hindrance, not a help.

The next morning Ian was crossing Exchange Place when he saw a man approaching who gave him a thrill of recollection. He hesitated for a moment, and then went quickly forward. His hand was outstretched and his face smiling.

"Richard!" he cried. "I am glad to see you. I am glad to have this opportunity of saying I did you wrong. I was very unkind both to you and to Marion. I am sincerely sorry for the past, will you forgive it now?"

And Lord Cramer clasped the hand offered and answered with hearty gladness: "I cannot forgive it now, sir. I forgave it many years ago. Marion stands between us. We are the best of friends." Then they walked together cheerfully to a hotel and ordered a good lunch, for both English and Scotchmen cannot celebrate any event – whether it concern the heart or the purse – without offering a meat and drink sacrifice for the occasion. During the meal Ian sent loving words to Marion, and promised to be with her on the following day, and thus love and good-will took the place forever of wronged and slighted affection. Then he saw his eldest grandchild, a beautiful boy of ten years old, Ian, the future Lord of Cramer, and his heart went out to the lovable child, as it did also to the bright, seven-year-old Agnes and the pretty baby, Jessy. Three days he spent at Cramer Hall, and saw all the improvements made there – the additions to the Hall, the fine condition of the park and gardens, and the famous and highly profitable oyster beds. So his heart was filled with that mortal love for which it had been aching and perishing.

When he returned to Glasgow he found Dr. Lindsey with his uncle. He had come in answer to Ian's letter, and he was enthusiastic concerning all Ian's intentions and eager to assist in realizing them. "You know, Ian," he said, "we were preparing for a long holiday together when you started for Furness and Ambleside. This is 'the long journey' for which we were unconsciously preparing. I called at the little mining village as I came here – "

"And that father and his boy?" interrupted the Major.

"They died together in the pit. They were laid in one wide grave, and rich and poor, from far and near, came to honor that perfect image of the Divine love. I called on his widow. She was still weeping for 'her man and her lile lad.' He was her first-born, but she has four other children, the youngest a few weeks old. She is very poor. Her neighbors are feeding her."

"But that must stop," cried Ian. "It is my duty and my pleasure. How can I ever pay the debt? I will see to it at once. It is a sin that I have not already done so."

"You are right, Ian," answered the Doctor; "and we may recall now how wonderfully you have been led, and realize that there is a kind of predestination in our life. It was necessary for you to spend ten years in the House of Pain and Suffering and Death; necessary for you to know how to cure the sick and to heal the wounded, in order to prepare you to receive the sacred mystery in that horrible pit, and make you fit for the work you have yet to do. Do you remember how impossible we found it, night after night, to satisfy ourselves as to the course and country our holiday should take? And all the time the journey was being arranged for us. Surely the steps of a good man are ordered of the Lord."

"'Steps,'" said the Major. "We may be glad of that word, for it is easy for a man to take just one step to ruin or to death."

The journey to America being determined, Dr. Lindsey went back to London to prepare his business for an absence of three months. Ian was glad of his companionship, and promised to meet him in Liverpool on the 25th of July. There they would take together passage for New York. This plan was fully carried out, but of the voyage, the journeyings and their life in California there is no necessity to write. Possibly most of my readers have crossed the Atlantic, and know far more about California than I do; so that I may well leave any descriptions to their memories or imaginations. It is the humanity of my story with which we have to do.

They had been eagerly looked for at Los Angeles, and were welcomed with unbounded love and respect. Donald and his father drew aside for a moment, but what they said to each other only God knows. There is a divine silence in forgiveness. When Peter first met Christ, after his denial of Him, what did Peter say? What did Christ say? We are not told; but great wrongs can be wiped out in one tender word, though such acts in the drama of life are not translatable. It was different with Macbeth. He greeted his guests with a proud and delightful extravagance.

"You are welcome, 'Men of St. Andrews!'" he cried; "you are tenfold welcome!" And for the next five weeks he gave himself to entertaining them in every possible way. The pretty Spanish wife was shy and reticent, but her three sons spoke for her, and Donald was evidently the idol of his house and in all his surroundings prosperous and happy.

Jessy Caird, however, had failed and faded physically more than she ought to have done, so Ian was not slow to take the first opportunity of speaking confidentially to her. She was sitting just within the open door of her bungalow. Her eyes were closed, her work had fallen from her hands, and there was no book of any kind within her reach. Ian wondered at these things. Jessy doing nothing! Jessy without a book! What could be the meaning of it?

She opened her eyes as she heard his approach, and said with a smile, "You are walking like your old self, Ian, but for all that sit down by me."

"That is what I am here for. I want to talk with you, and with you only. My dear sister, you look sick – or very unhappy. Which is it?"

"Ian, I am both sick and unhappy. In the first place, I am heartbroken for my native land. I want to see once more the green, green straths of Scotland – the green straths with a haze of bluebells over them! I want the gray, soft skies and the little silvery showers that blessed both humanity and nature with constant freshness. And O Ian, I want, I want, I want the living tongue of running water! Do you mind that, in all the summers we spent in Arran, we could not go anywhere on the island and lose the happy sound of running water? Do you mind how the waters leaped from rock to rock, and thundered down the craggy glens, and then went singing and gurgling along the roadside? Ian, Ian, take me home! I want to die in my own country!"