IV
“It was a first-rate match, and we were fairly beaten; it was their forward turned the scale. I had two hacks from him myself”—the captain of the Glasgow Football Club nursed the tender spots. “It's a mercy to-morrow's Sunday and one can lie in bed.”
“Olive oil is not bad for rubbing. You deserve the rest, old man. It was a stiff fight. By-the-way I saw Rutherford of St Bede's there. He cheered like a good'un when you got that goal. He's the best parson going in Glasgow.”
“Can't bear the tribe nor their ways, Charlie, they're such hypocrites, always preaching against the world and that kind of thing and feathering their own nests at every turn. Do you know I calculated that six of them in Glasgow alone have netted a hundred and twenty thousand pounds by successful marriages. That's what sickens a fellow at religion.”
“Well, you can't say that against Rutherford, Jack, for he's not married, and works like a coal-heaver. He's the straightest man I've come across either in the pulpit or out of it, besides being a ripping preacher. Suppose you look me up to-morrow about six, and we'll hear what he's got to say.”
His friends said that Rutherford was only thirty-four years of age, but he looked as if he were near fifty, for his hair had begun to turn gray, and he carried the traces of twenty years' work upon his face. No one would have asked whether he was handsome, for he had about him an air of sincerity and humanity that at once won your confidence. His subject that evening was the “Sanctifying power of love,” and, as his passion gradually increased to white heat, he had the men before him at his mercy. Women of the world complained that he was hard and unsympathetic; some elderly men considered his statements unguarded and even unsound; but men below thirty heard him gladly. This evening he was stirred for some reason to the depths of his being, and was irresistible. When he enlarged on the love of a mother, and charged every son present to repay it by his life and loyalty, a hundred men glared fiercely at the roof, and half of them resolved to write home that very night. As he thundered against lust, the foul counterfeit of love, men's faces whitened, and twice there was a distinct murmur of applause. His great passage, however, came at the close, and concerned the love of a man for a maid: “If it be given to any man in his fresh youth to love a noble woman with all his heart, then in that devotion he shall find an unfailing inspiration of holy thoughts and high endeavours, a strong protection against impure and selfish temptations, a secret comfort amid the contradictions and adversities of life. Let him give this passion full play in his life and it will make a man of him and a good soldier in the great battle. And if it so be that this woman pass from his sight or be beyond his reach, yet in this love itself shall he find his exceeding reward.” As he spoke in a low, sweet, intense voice, those in the gallery saw the preacher's left hand tighten on the side of the pulpit till the bones and sinews could be counted, but with his right hand he seemed to hold something that lay on his breast “Look here, Charlie”—as the two men stood in a transept till the crowd passed down the main aisle—“if you don't mind I would like... to shake hands with the preacher. When a man takes his coat off and does a big thing like that he ought to know that he has... helped a fellow.”
“I'll go in too, Jack, for he's straightened me, and not for the first time. You know how I used to live... well, that is over, and it was Rutherford saved me.”
“He looks as if he had been badly hit some time. Do you know his record?”
“There's some story about his being in love with a poor girl and being determined to marry her, but 'Iron Warrants' got round her and persuaded her that it would be Rutherford's ruin; so she disappeared, and they say Rutherford is waiting for her to this day. But I don't give it as a fact.”
“You may be sure every word of it is true, old man; it's like one of Thompson's tricks, for I was in his office once, and it's just what that man in the pulpit would do; poor chap, he's served his time... I say, though, suppose that girl turns up some day.”
They were near the vestry door and arranging their order of entrance when a woman came swiftly down the empty aisle as from some distant corner of the church and stood behind them for an instant.
“Is this Mr. Rutherford's room, gentlemen”—with a delicate flavour of Highland in the perfect English accent—“and would it be possible for me to see him... alone?”
They received a shock of delight on the very sight of her and did instant homage. It was not on account of her magnificent beauty—a woman in the height of her glory—nor the indescribable manner of good society, nor the perfection of her dressing, nor a singular dignity of carriage. They bowed before her for the look in her eyes, the pride of love, and, although both are becoming each day her more devoted slaves, yet they agree that she could only look once as she did that night.
It was Charlie that showed her in, playing beadle for the occasion that this princess might not have to wait one minute, and his honour obliged him to withdraw instantly, but before the door could be closed he heard Rutherford cry—“At last, Magdalen, my love!”
“Do you think, Charlie...?”
“Rutherford has got his reward, Jack, and twenty years would not have been too long to wait.”