Part 31 (1/2)
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 pa.s.sed the long evening. Now and then he vouchsafed a few remarks on pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d? 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 G.o.d was _not_ the Word of G.o.d?
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 a.s.sertions 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 G.o.d 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 thres.h.i.+ng-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 subst.i.tute 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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d who forgave his enemies, and who thought rich men would hardly win their way into the kingdom of heaven. As for h.e.l.l, 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 pa.s.sionate sorrow and entreaty in the lifted eyes and hands filled Mrs. Caird with a great pity, and she answered softly:
”When you seek for G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 mult.i.tudes 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?”