Part 24 (2/2)
Then the pathos of the situation overcame Carmichael, and he went over to the bookcase and leant his head against certain volumes, because they were weighty and would not yield. Next day he noticed that one of them was a Latin Calvin that had travelled over Europe in learned company, and the other a battered copy of Jonathan Edwards that had come from the house of an Ayrs.h.i.+re farmer.
”Forgive me that I have troubled you with the concerns of my soul, John”--the Rabbi could only stand with an effort--”they ought to be between a man and his G.o.d. There is another work laid to my hand for which there is no power in me now. During the night I shall ask whether the cup may not pa.s.s from me, but if not, the will of G.o.d be done.”
Carmichael slept but little, and every time he woke the thought was heavy upon him that on the other side of a narrow wall the holiest man he knew was wrestling in darkness of soul, and that he had added to the bitterness of the agony.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Wrestling in darkness of soul.]
CHAPTER XX.
THE WOUNDS OF A FRIEND.
Winter has certain mornings which redeem weeks of misconduct, when the h.o.a.r frost during the night has re-silvered every branch and braced the snow upon the ground, and the sun rises in ruddy strength and drives out of sight every cloud and mist, and moves all day through an expanse of unbroken blue, and is reflected from the dazzling whiteness of the earth as from a mirror. Such a sight calls a man from sleep with authority, and makes his blood tingle, and puts new heart in him, and banishes the troubles of the night. Other mornings winter joins in the conspiracy of princ.i.p.alities and powers to daunt and crush the human soul. No sun is to be seen, and the grey atmosphere casts down the heart, the wind moans and whistles in fitful gusts, the black clouds hang low in threatening ma.s.ses, now and again a flake of snow drifts in the wind. A storm is near at hand, not the thunder-shower of summer, with warm rain and the kindly sun in ambush, but dark and blinding snow, through which even a gamekeeper cannot see six yards, and in which weary travellers lie down to rest and die.
The melancholy of this kind of day had fallen on Saunderson, whose face was ashen, and who held Carmichael's hand with such anxious affection that it was impossible to inquire how he had slept, and it would have been a ba.n.a.lite to remark upon the weather. After the Rabbi had been compelled to swallow a cup of milk by way of breakfast, it was evident that he was ready for speech.
”What is it, Rabbi?” as soon as they were again settled in the study.
”If you did not . . . like my sermon, tell me at once. You know that I am one of your boys, and you ought to . . . help me.” Perhaps it was inseparable from his youth, with its buoyancy and self-satisfaction, and his training in a college whose members only knew by rumour of the existence of other places of theological learning, that Carmichael had at that moment a pleasing sense of humility and charity. Had it been a matter of scholastic lore, of course neither he nor more than six men in Scotland could have met the Rabbi in the gate. With regard to modern thought, Carmichael knew that the good Rabbi had not read _Ecce h.o.m.o_, and was hardly, well . . . up to date. He would not for the world hint such a thing to the dear old man, nor even argue with him; but it was flattering to remember that the attack could be merely one of blunderbusses, in which the modern thinker would at last intervene and save the ancient scholar from humiliation.
”Well, Rabbi?” and Carmichael tried to make it easy.
”Before I say what is on my heart, John, you will grant an old man who loves you one favour. So far as in you lies you will bear with me if that which I have to say, and still more that which my conscience will compel me to do, is hard to flesh and blood.”
”Did n't we settle that last night in the vestry?” and Carmichael was impatient; ”is it that you do not agree with the doctrine of the Divine Fatherhood? We younger men are resolved to base Christian doctrine on the actual Scriptures, and to ignore mere tradition.”
”An excellent rule, my dear friend,” cried the Rabbi, wonderfully quickened by the challenge, ”and with your permission and for our mutual edification we shall briefly review all pa.s.sages bearing on the subject in hand--using the original, as will doubtless be your wish, and you correcting my poor recollection.”
About an hour afterwards, and when the Rabbi was only entering into the heart of the matter, Carmichael made the bitter discovery--without the Rabbi having even hinted at such a thing--that his pet sermon was a ma.s.s of boyish crudities, and this reverse of circ.u.mstances was some excuse for his pettishness.
”It does not seem to me that it is worth our time to haggle about the usage of Greek words or to count texts: I ground my position on the general meaning of the Gospels and the sense of things,” and Carmichael stood on the hearthrug in a very superior att.i.tude.
”Let that pa.s.s then, John, and forgive me if I appeared to battle about words, as certain scholars of the olden time were fain to do, for in truth it is rather about the hard duty before me than any imperfection in your teaching I would speak,” and the Rabbi glanced nervously at the young minister.
”We are both Presbyters of Christ's Church, ordained after the order of primitive times, and there are laid on us certain heavy charges and responsibilities from which we may not shrink, as we shall answer to the Lord at the great day.”
Carmichael's humiliation was lost in perplexity, and he sat down, wondering what the Rabbi intended.
”If any Presbyter should see his brother fall into one of those faults of private life that do beset us all in our present weakness, then he doth well and kindly to point it out unto his brother; and if his brother should depart from the faith as they talk together by the way, then it is a Presbyter's part to convince him of his error and restore him.”
The Rabbi cast an imploring glance, but Carmichael had still no understanding.
”But if one Presbyter should teach heresy to his flock in the hearing of another . . . even though it break the other's heart, is not the path of duty fenced up on either side, verily a straight, narrow way, and hard for the feet to tread?”
”You have spoken to me, Rabbi, and . . . cleared yourself”--Carmichael was still somewhat sore--”and I 'll promise not to offend you again in an action sermon.”
”Albeit you intend it not so, yet are you making it harder for me to speak. . . . See you not . . . that I . . . that necessity is laid on me to declare this matter to my brother Presbyters in court a.s.sembled . . . but not in hearing of the people?” Then there was a stillness in the room, and the Rabbi, although he had closed his eyes, was conscious of the amazement on the young man's face.
”Do you mean to say,” speaking very slowly, as one taken utterly aback, ”that our Rabbi would come to my . . . to the Sacrament and hear me preach, and . . . report me for heresy to the Presbytery? Rabbi, I know we don't agree about some things, and perhaps I was a little . . .
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