"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 h.e.l.l 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. G.o.d, 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 ma.s.s, 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 h.e.l.l. 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 G.o.d-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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 sh.o.r.eless 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sionate invocations of David, "Cast me not away from Thy Presence. Take not Thy Holy Spirit from me." To be cast out of G.o.d"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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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.
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 ill.u.s.trate 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 G.o.d of my Bible has left me. All my life I had trusted to whatever G.o.d said in His Word. G.o.d had said it, and I knew that G.o.d 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 G.o.d left me. I deserved it. I have lost my place among the sons of G.o.d.
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 G.o.d_!"
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 G.o.d of Bethel, by whose hand Thy people still are fed, Who through this weary wilderness Hast 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 bal.u.s.ters, 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?"
[Ill.u.s.tration: "The descent seemed steep and dark"]
"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 att.i.tude was well pleasing to G.o.d 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."